#then all of a sudden it clicked to why she seemed so familiar

[queer-froggit]

the average yuri is doomed from the start because they come from two completely different worlds, where one has been scorned all their life for something they can't control, and only reach total self-gratification when they learn to embrace it, while the other has been praised their whole life for being good and pure and have had everything they think they want handed to them on a silver platter, to the point where if they don't get what they want they genuinely don't know how to handle it, and most likely end up shutting down

[xxsquiddkiddxx]

Heels ~ Viktor x Reader

Pronouns for reader: She/Her

Relationship type: Platonic, romantic feelings, slight enemies to lovers if you unfocus your eyes a bit

General Idea: Viktor used to hate the sound of those damn boots of hers, but now he's grown to find an odd sense of comfort in the noise. Along with... a series of other feelings.

Content Warnings: Fluff, swearing, Viktor being sassy, s1 Viktor, Takes place between S1E3~E4, Viktor's kinda down bad but in a denial way, Viktor also isn't good at realizing he has feelings for the reader, Jayce needs a 32hr nap

A/N: My Viktor headcanons got a LOT more love than I thought they would... so I decided to write some more Viktor XD

(Nobody's POV, but it's mostly told. through Viktor's thoughts)

~☆~

The lab was pretty much silent. The only sounds heard were the sounds of Viktor tinkering with a Hextech device and the occasional flipping of pages as (Y/N) read some notes that Jayce had written. It was late, definetly past midnight as the two worked.

"(Y/N)," Viktor says, breaking the silence. The girl's head pops up at the sound of her name. "Come here for a second? I need a second pair of hands."

"Be right there." She says, finishing the page she was on. She stands up and walks towards him, the sound of her boots hitting the tile as she walks.

Clack

Click

Clack

Viktor used to hate the sound of her boots. "Those damn boots are so annoying," He had complained to Jayce during the first week of (Y/N) working as a part-time assistant. "Click clack click clack, drives me insane!" He had mocked before sighing.

"Viktor... don't both your boots AND your cane make that noise as well?"Jayce had responded, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile. This made Viktor at a loss for words.

"Well... It's annoying when she does it!" He had sassed back in response, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

That was 3 years ago. Now, he found a weird sense of comfort in hearing the sound of her boots hit the floor. He couldn't explain why, enjoyment of familiarity maybe?

"What's up?" (Y/N) says, standing behind Viktor. The smell of her perfume was almost overwhelming to him, overloading his senses. Which was weird, seeings as it must've been almost 13 hours since she'd last applied perfume. And that doesn't last long... was he delusional? Or maybe just tired? Whatever. It doesn't matter.

"Yeah, I just need you to hold this in place." Viktor says, not even looking up from what he's doing. He gestures to a little piece of metal he's holding. (Y/N) leans over Viktor and holds the piece in place as requested. The scientist trys his best to ignore the feeling of her closeness and the racing of his heart... holy crap was it warm in here? It must've been. Although it seemed strange to him that it was magically warm in here all of a sudden. This spirals him into a memory, a memory that took place a little less than a week prior to now.

Viktor sat at his desk, for once not to work on Hextech, but to run his hands through his hair and stay deep in thought.

"Viktor?" Jayce asked. "Are you OK? You haven't been as focused as you normally are today. Did something happen?"

"I think... I think there's something genuinely wrong with me." Viktor says. "Like... maybe I'm coming down with something?? I don't know." Viktor stands up, leaning on his cane slightly for support.

"Oh?" Jayce asks, raising an eyebrow. "Could you, uh, possibly elaborate on that?"

"Well, for one everytime Ms.(L/N) comes near me I about have a damn heart attack." Viktor says, his cane clacking softly on the floor as he paces. "Like yesterday, perfect example. She accidently brushed my hand when she was passing me a paper and I actually thought I was dying."

Jayce suppresses a smile, trying not to laugh. Was Viktor really getting THIS worked up... over a little crush? "Oh?" Jayce says, still suppressing a smile. "Is that it?"

"Whenever she's near me, I swear to the gods that I become hyperaware of... like... everything." Viktor says. "Like the room feels warmer, her perfume or her shampoo is ALL I can smell, I'm almost convinced I know every single speckle of color in her eyes... I think I might actually be going crazy." Viktor says, stopping his pacing. "I'm positive. I've actually hit the breaking point and am decending into insanity."

Jayce now can't help but laugh. Maybe it was his lack of sleep from working on Hextech for days on end, maybe it was the seriousness in Viktor's voice about his "decent to madness." Jayce's laughter came out as almost wheezes due to how hard he was laughing.

Viktor throws his hands up in exasperatedness. "Jayce!" Viktor scolds. "This ISN'T funny! There's-"

This just makes Jayce laugh more and more. "Yes it is, Viktor." Jayce manages to say through wheezes. He's holding onto the desk for support as he laughs. It gets to the point where passersby become mildly concerned for the scientist's wellbeing. "I assure you you're not decending to madness."

"Then what the hell is going on????" Viktor exclaims, collapsing into his chair.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine." Jayce says, wiping the tears of laughter away as he tries to steady his breathing.

"Viktor?" The sound of his name snaps him out of the memory. "You good? I think I said your name like five times." (Y/N) says with a chuckle. Viktor shakes his head slightly.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine." Viktor says, continuing what he was doing. He tried to ignore the slight shake in his hands, the side of his own hand pressed against Ms. (L/N)'s own hand. When he's done. He about throws the screwdriver down. "Thank you for your assistance." Viktor says, the weight off his shoulders earning a little sigh of relief.

"Was that all you needed?" (Y/N) asks.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah." Viktor says. (Y/N) hums in response, walking over to her desk. Click, clack, click, clack. Her boots echo in the room. She grabs her coat and walks towards Viktor again.

"I'm gonna head out then." She says. Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of her boots ring in Viktor's head, a haunting sound that he didn't actually mind having on replay in his brain. "You should too soon." She says, her voice kind and soft.

Viktor's stomach feels like it's about to leap out of his body. Even though it was scientifically impossible, he couldn't help but worry about it. "I will soon." He says, the softness in his voice actually shocking him. Normally he'd just lie out his teeth and sleep in the lab, or not sleep at all. However, when he said that he would... he truly meant it. His eyes move away from the project and to (Y/N). "I'm just gonna finish this little bit up."

(Y/N) smiles, it's tired and small, but it's still a smile nonetheless. Seeing her smile along made the corners of his lips feel like they were moving on their own. He suppresses a smile the best he can, but it still shows on his face. "Goodnight, Viktor." She says, her voice still soft. She didn't speak full volume, and that for some reason made Viktor's heart rate skyrocket.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)." He says, the same tone and volume as (Y/N). She turns and walks out of the room. Click, clack, click, clack. He listens to the sound of her shoes until they completely fade out.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine."

Viktor didn't have a crush on (Y/N)... did he?

~☆~

For more fics: my masterlist

Feel free to request fics!!!

~Squeed

[loverboysturn]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ popular!chris and the football team take a visit to the diner when cinderella!reader is on shift !

find all popular!chris and cinderella!reader writings here and everything else here!

note: you might want to read this first before reading the below so some things make more sense :) my au’s are always open for this au! come yap or ask me questions about them!

you normally hated working the late shift.

but for a friday night, it was quiet. the diner was empty, a few regulars sat in their usual seats and some families scattered about but all in all, your shift had been peaceful so far. the constant hum of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, and the sizzling sounds of the chefs at work was comforting to you, you wipe down the counter in front of you for the third time since you started work tonight, pretending to not notice how time was dragging on. it was boring but you were grateful for the calmness of it all, especially after the last week.

the world outside the diner seemed to be moving slowly too, the streets outside empty apart from the occasional cars driving by, it was one of those rare nights where it was quiet enough that you could find the time to think, your mind always going back to the same thing, same person.

but, the peace didn’t last long.

the door swings open, and the group swarm in, instantly filling the diner with their energy. their voices louder than usual, bouncing off the walls as they joked and laughed. the football team walking in first, followed not long after by a cluster of cheerleaders, all of them still hyped up from practice.

you barely have any time to adjust to the sudden change in the atmosphere before they were all over the place. completely taking over the booths at the back of the diner, making themselves known to everyone else already in here. their noise filling every corner of the diner, and the chatter between them growing with every passing second. the peace and quiet you had only just been enjoying was suddenly replaced with noise, and lots of it.

your colleague pops her head from behind the counter quietly calling your name. “honey, can you take the booths in the back for me? i’ll take the tables after, i just need to wrap up what i’m doing”

you didn’t need to look over to know to known which booths she was talking about.

you hesitate for a second, trying to scramble up an excuse as to why you can’t, feeling a familiar knot of dread tighten in your stomach.

“but, i—i” you stutter, brain working overdrive to find an excuse.

“please?” she asks again, giving you a small smile.

you sigh, accepting your fate. “yeah, of course.” you really, really didn’t want to serve them. the teasing, the jokes, it was always the same when they were around, and you weren’t in the mood for it all tonight, but you couldn’t say no to her.

taking a deep breath, you straightened out your apron and forced yourself to look unbothered by them all, the last thing you needed was for them to start making more of a scene, but you knew the moment you walked over, they’d find something to laugh at.

as you make your way to the table, your eyes immediately land on chris sturniolo, and for a second, your stomach flips. the memory of bumping into him in the hallway earlier this week flashes in your mind. your books flying out of your arms, the way your cheeks went a deep red after falling to the floor, rejecting his offer to help you up, you quickly look away, trying to shake the feeling of being in his line of vision for the first time since, even though he hadn’t so much as even looked at you once.

“here she is, diner girl” one of the football team says as he sees you, loud enough for them all to hear. you recognise him as the guy who was rude to you you the other day when you bumped into chris. “don’t forget your service with a smile today.”

you bite your lip, forcing a smile as you click your pen and pull out your notepad to take their order.

it was hard to not feel the weight of all their eyes on you, you had enough going on at the minute, you’d been juggling assignments at school, your stepmother signing you up for shift after shift, and on top of it all, there were the late night texts you shared with someone you still didn’t know the identity of but for you it was easier that way, completely anonymous. there were no expectations, no judgement. just words on a screen, but they were words that were starting to mean a lot to you.

“what can i get you guys today?” you ask, trying to keep your tone professional. you wasn’t in the mood for the teasing from them tonight, but you’d try to just ignore it.

“milkshakes” one of the cheerleaders looks up at you with a fake smile, “the usual, don’t fuck it up.”

as she finishes speaking, another cheerleader giggles at her friends’ rudeness, a sharp, laugh that rings in your ears after, you recognise her as the head cheerleader.. always the loudest, the first to join in with the diner girl jokes. your eyes briefly look over to where she has her arm casually draped over chris’s, trying to gain his attention, but he wasn’t paying any interest in her, not even looking up from his phone, clearly more interested in what was on the screen than the girl bedside him.

they were the stereotypical on-and-off couple. chris, the school’s golden boy and captain of the football team and her, the head cheerleader and the girl all her friends wanted to be. everyone knew their drama, how they’d broken up and gotten back together more times than you could count on both hands. the last you’d heard, they’d broken up for good just before the summer break started but you’d never paid much attention to it, the gossip of the popular crowd had never really interested you, it was always the same boring stories.

“got it” you say, your voice flat as you force a smile. you turn on your heel, rolling your eyes when they could no longer see you, the feeling of frustration brewing in your chest at the way they treated anyone not in their group but you’d gotten good at pretending they didn’t bother you at work, even when they did. you knew they’d leave a terrible tip anyway, that’s if they even left one at all.

you make sure the milkshakes come out exactly as they ordered to prevent any more rude comments from them, a few vanilla, a few chocolate and some strawberry flavoured. you place them carefully on the table, trying your best to avoid eye contact with anyone but as you set the last one in front of chris, he looks up at you, eyes locking with yours.

“you know, diner girl” one of his teammates interrupts the eye contact, a smirk forming on his lips. “i think we shouldn’t have to pay for these tonight, they’re on the house, right? you know.. ‘cause of your little accident running into chris this week.”

the whole table erupts into laughter, a few other comments muttered and fake giggles, a cheerleader chimes in “yeah, maybe you should stay out the way next time and you’d earn your tips.”

you still don’t let your frustrations show, just nodding at them. “enjoy your drinks guys.” you sigh, quickly walking away before any more comments can be thrown your way.

an hour or so later, the group finish their drinks and you notice them all start to make their way to the exit, their noise and laughter still echoing all around the diner. you stand behind the counter, cleaning a coffee mug, hoping they’ll just hurry up and leave.

“thanks for the free milkshakes, diner girl” one of the football team shouts. “you’ll have to bump into our golden boy more often.”

you don’t respond, just waiting for them all to finally leave, bringing the diner back to the quiet you were enjoying earlier.

you turn to grab a rag from under the counter, already bracing yourself for their mess that you’ll now have to clean, but as you’re about to head over, you feel someone standing on the other side of the counter infront of you.

you glance up, half expecting it to be one of the football team or a cheerleader, waiting to throw one last comment at you before they leave for good, but when you look up and your eyes land on chris, you’re taken aback. he’s standing there, his posture is calm, but you can sense the tension in his shoulders and for a second, you freeze, waiting for him to make some kind of snide remark.

but he doesn’t.

“i just wanted to say” he begins, voice softer than you expected. “i’m sorry for how they all treated you tonight. i didn’t like that they spoke to you like that” he looks down, eyes on the counter infront of him. “the thing in the hallway the other day with me and you, that was completely my fault. i wasn’t looking where i was going.”

you blink in surprise, a look of confusion taking over your face. you wasn’t expecting this, you open your mouth to say something, but the words are stuck in your throat.

“i—“ you start, unsure of how to respond. “it’s fine, i—I’m kinda used to it now.”

he shakes his head, finally looking up at you now. “no,” his voice firm, “you shouldn’t have to be used to it, that’s not fair on you but i’m sorry if my stupid clumsiness made it all worse tonight.”

when you saw him stood there just now, you expected the same attitude you receive off his friends, the same dismissive tone in his voice but instead, he’s apologising for them and you can’t quite figure out why.

“honestly, chris” you say, forcing a smile. “it’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.”

his gaze lingers on you, then without warning, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled bill, sliding it over to you. “here,” he says, “for the milkshakes.”

“thank you,” you murmur, voice softer with him now, you take the money, fingers brushing against his making the awkward tension in the air between you become thick enough that you feel yourself becoming flustered.

chris gives you a half-smile, a rare one that feels a lot more genuine than the usual one you see him throw about at football games and in the hallways. “it’s nothing,” he says, his tone softening. “and, uh…you really know how to make a great strawberry milkshake, guess i owe you one now for that too.”

you blink, completely caught off guard but before you can say anything else, chris turns and heads for the door, slipping out with his friends, door swinging shut behind him. you watch him go, still feeling confused by him being nice to you but you can’t shake the feeling that maybe he is still like the rest of them, charming when he wants something, but just as rude as his friends when it doesn’t matter to him.

you push your thoughts aside, just wanting to forget about the whole scene and pretend your shift tonight didn’t happen, you focus on the task waiting for you, heading over to the now messy booth where they’d been sitting that needed cleaning.

as you wipe the table, your mind drifts to your mystery guy and you can’t help but wonder what he’s doing right now. is he thinking about you too? you glance at the clock, a sense of relief running through you when you see there’s only an hour left of your shift.

sixty more minutes, and you’ll be able to talk to him again, the only thing that had been on your mind all night, the only thing that makes the chaos of your life all fade into the background.

little did you know, the guy who was keeping you up at night and consuming your thoughts, was standing just a few feet from you earlier, complimenting you on your strawberry milkshakes and you had no idea.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 141

Many would assume the flirtatious and caring bard to be the most touchstarved of the duo, but they would be wrong. Very very wrong. It was Geralt that sought out Jaskier's personal space like it was an all-curing ambrosia. Day and night, In town or in the woods, warm weather or the late autumn, Geralt would touch him. Always, always touching him. Don't get him wrong! Jaskier loves being groped all day by his rather attractive witcher friend, but it wasn't always the most convenient trait for his witcher to have.

*Growls* "Geralt, please, it's the waitress! She's taking our order."

Geralt clings to Jaskier's arms, plays with his hair, sniffs at his neck. He guides Jaskier with a hand on the shoulder, or an arm around his waist, or one time, - flustering Jaskier greatly - a hand on his hip. When Geralt is worried for him, he grips his arm, shields him with his body, or roams his hands over Jaskier's body, searching for injuries. Geralt is ever-present in Jaskier's personal space. It's just become a thing with them. Even in times of stress, danger, adrenaline. Geralt is fighting a manticore one day, and Jaskier is - admittedly, quite foolishly - in plain view. It wasn't on purpose! He's not an idiot! STOP JUDGING HIM! The beast goes to charge straight for him, and Geralt grabs his arm and whips him to the side, just in time to save him from the beast who then careens off a cliff. Jaskier pants, and feels the familiar weight of Geralt's hands. Geralt is snarling at him, shouting at him, and Jaskier tries very hard to understand, truly, he does, but it's hard. "Damn it, Jaskier, answer me!" Oh! REALLY should be listening now! "Hm?" "Are you hurt? Are you in pain?" "No, no, you- You saved me." Like always. Jaskier stares at his hero. His witcher. His Geralt. His love. For Jaskier does love Geralt. More than anything. And Jaskier seems to realize this fact more and more every day. With every move Geralt makes, with every word he says, with every little touch and caress. He thinks more on this fact later that night around the campfire. Geralt asks him to pass him a waterskin, but when Jaskier reaches to grab it, he hisses in pain. He rolls up his sleeve and sees a bruise in the shape of Geralt's hand on his arm. Right. From when he was saved. "I'm going to find some dinner." Geralt suddenly announces, standing abruptly and already shuffling away. "Wh- But Geralt, what about the watersk-" "I don't need it." He disappears into the bushes and trees, and Jaskier furrows his brow. He was sure they still had some food in their packs, why was Geralt so insistent on leaving? Curious... Even more curious, is in the following days, Geralt is avoiding him. From an outsiders perspective, nothing would appear wrong. But Geralt hasn't touched him once. No embraces, or odd sudden bouts of smelling Jaskier's hair, or holding his hand... He hasn't even stood closer than a meter to him. Jaskier worries to no end. What must he have done? What's changed? Why won't Geralt touch him? It's not until he's bathing one evening and he glances to the still-healing bruise that it clicks. Geralt feels guilty. The damned bleeding-heart is so convinced he's a monster that even a mark that shows protection shows only it's ugliest form to him. When Jaskier sees the bruise on his arm, he remembers Geralt saving him, he remembers the relief, he remembers feeling alive. Geralt only sees a bruise. Something of hurt. Caused by Geralt. Jaskier is so simultaneously horrified and infuriated that he slams open the door of the joined bathroom and marches into main area of the room they'd rented for the night. Still nude. Still dripping. Geralt, sat on the bed, midway through taking off his boots, was certainly shocked.

[kiwriteswords]

You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else

AN: Thank you to the anon who requested this!

Other Writing | Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Rating: Everyone!

Tags/TW:  canon-typical themes, angst, fluff, insecure!hotch, mentions of a one-night-stand.

Summary: In the midst of an already stressful workweek, you notice a troubling shift in Aaron Hotchner’s behavior. Once warm and attentive, Aaron has grown distant, leaving you questioning what went wrong. As you try to navigate his sudden coldness, a casual conversation with JJ and Penelope might hold the key—one you didn’t realize Aaron overheard. The revelation sends Aaron spiraling into insecurity, causing him to pull away, leaving you in the dark. Now, with your relationship hanging in the balance, you must figure out what’s troubling Aaron before it’s too late. Can you bridge the gap between you, or will unspoken fears drive you apart?

You'd noticed it for days now—Aaron was distant. The once comforting warmth of his presence had slowly turned cold, and his usual tender glances were now filled with something you couldn't quite place. He seemed distracted, pulling away in ways that left you feeling hollow.

At first, you thought it was work. The BAU's latest case had been tough, and the pressure on Aaron as Unit Chief was undeniable. But this... this felt different. His once soft, fleeting touches in passing—gentle fingers on your arm or a quick brush against your hand—had all but disappeared. Even his tone had shifted, more professional, less personal. The space between you had grown, and you didn’t understand why.

The two of you had always been able to communicate so well, one of the many things you cherished in your relationship. But now, Aaron had built a wall you couldn't seem to break through.

It was starting to hurt.

As you sat at your desk in the bullpen, fidgeting with the pen in your hand, your mind replayed every conversation over the past week. Had you done something wrong? Maybe he was rethinking your relationship—maybe he regretted it? The thought alone caused a lump to form in your throat, but before you could spiral further, Derek Morgan sauntered over, pulling up a chair next to you.

"You okay, kid? You’ve been quiet lately," Derek asked, his voice low and concerned.

You offered him a small smile, not wanting to burden him with your worries. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... got a lot on my mind."

Morgan narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced. "Uh-huh. You know if you need to talk, I’m here."

"I know," you replied, your smile faltering as you noticed Aaron watching from across the room. His gaze wasn’t filled with warmth like it used to be, instead, there was a hint of something darker—jealousy?

Before you could think more on it, Derek squeezed your shoulder in a friendly gesture and headed back to his desk. As your eyes followed him, something clicked. Aaron hadn’t been distant until a few days ago, and the only notable event was… Your heart sank.

It couldn’t be.

A few days ago, you’d let it slip during a casual conversation with JJ and Penelope that you’d had a one-night stand with Derek before you and Aaron had started dating. It was well before you even realized your feelings for Hotch, but… had Aaron overheard?

The breakroom was alive with the usual banter between you, JJ, and Penelope, your small group using the rare quiet moment to relax after an intense case. JJ leaned back in her chair, smiling warmly as she stirred her tea, while Penelope scrolled through her phone, probably digging up something fun or ridiculous to show you both.

"So," JJ began, her tone casual but her smile sly, "how are things going with Hotch? You two have been looking pretty... close lately."

You smiled softly, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest at the mention of Aaron, but kept your response brief. "Things are good," you said simply, glancing down at your coffee.

Penelope wasn’t going to let it go that easily. "Come on, Y/N! 'Good'?" She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Spill the tea, my dear. You’re with the Aaron Hotchner. I need details!"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You know me, Pen. I'm not giving you details. But yeah, things are really great with him."

JJ smiled knowingly but didn’t push, clearly respecting your boundaries. But Penelope, as always, wasn’t done teasing.

"Well," she said dramatically, "it's still funny to me that before Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, you had your little one-time fling with our very own Derek Morgan." She waggled her eyebrows, and JJ laughed softly, shaking her head.

You groaned, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Seriously, Garcia? I thought we agreed not to bring that up."

JJ grinned, clearly enjoying the teasing, though her tone was kind. "You know she's never going to let it go."

Penelope giggled. "Never. It's too good. I mean, come on—Derek? One night? How did you even focus on anything afterward?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your embarrassment. "It was forever ago, okay? Derek and I both knew it wasn’t serious. It was just a random thing after a case, and we agreed to keep it in the past."

"Mm-hmm," Penelope teased, leaning back with a satisfied grin. "Still, kind of hilarious when you think about how things turned out. You and Hotch? I didn’t see that coming. But honestly, you two fit."

You couldn’t help but smile softly at that. “Yeah,” you admitted, your heart warming at the thought of Aaron. “We do.”

The teasing continued, lighthearted and affectionate, but you didn’t realize that just outside the door, Aaron Hotchner had stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking as he overheard the mention of Derek.

Aaron had been on his way to grab a cup of coffee when he’d heard your voice in the breakroom. He wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but when you laughed—a sound he always gravitated toward—he paused, drawn in by the easy conversation.

But then he heard Penelope.

"...before Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, you had your little one-time fling with our very own Derek Morgan."

The words stopped him cold.

Derek? You and Derek? Aaron's chest tightened painfully. He hadn’t known.

He wasn’t naïve—he knew you had a life before him, relationships and experiences that predated the two of you. But hearing about it so suddenly, and with Derek of all people… It was like a punch to the gut.

He stood frozen outside the doorway, trying to process what he’d just heard. He wasn’t angry—he didn’t have the right to be—but a sudden wave of insecurity washed over him. Derek was everything Aaron wasn’t. Younger, charming, confident in a way that came so naturally to him. And you had been with him, even if just for one night.

Aaron’s mind raced with irrational thoughts, each one tugging at his already frayed nerves. What if you compared them? What if you found him lacking? Derek had all the qualities Aaron sometimes worried he was losing—his youth, his easygoing charm. What could Aaron offer you that Derek couldn’t?

He knew it wasn’t fair to think that way, but he couldn’t stop the jealousy from creeping in. Suddenly, every interaction with you felt different, like he wasn’t enough. Like maybe you’d eventually realize that, too.

His grip tightened on the doorknob, but instead of walking in, he turned away. He couldn’t face you right now—not with these feelings gnawing at him. You deserved better than his insecurities. He’d push it down, hide it, just like he always did.

But from that moment on, the distance between you began to grow.

You suddenly felt queasy. If that was what this was about, it all made sense. Aaron wasn’t just pulling away—he was hurt. And you had no idea how to fix it.

Later that evening, after everyone had gone home, you found yourself standing outside Aaron’s office, heart hammering in your chest. You needed to talk to him, to figure out why he was treating you this way and to set things right. Gathering your courage, you knocked lightly on his door.

“Come in,” came his familiar deep voice, though it lacked the usual warmth you craved.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, and found him seated at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on some case files. He didn’t look up at you right away, and that stung more than you wanted to admit.

“Aaron,” you began, voice soft. “Can we talk?”

Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, his face impassive though there was something vulnerable beneath his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” you pressed, moving closer. “I feel like you’ve been… distant.”

Hotch sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “It’s nothing, Y/N. I’ve just been—”

“Busy?” you interrupted, frustration and sadness leaking into your tone. “I don’t believe that. This isn’t about work, Aaron. Something’s been bothering you, and I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“I overheard you talking to JJ and Penelope the other day.” His words were measured, but you could hear the hurt laced within them. “About Derek.”

Your heart clenched painfully in your chest. “Oh,” you whispered. “That… that was years ago, Aaron. It was before us, and it meant nothing. You have to believe me.”

Hotch stood up from his chair, moving to the window, his broad shoulders tense. “I know it was before us,” he said, almost too quietly. “But it’s hard not to feel… inadequate, knowing you were with him. He’s younger, stronger, charismatic. He can give you things I can’t.”

Your heart broke hearing the insecurity in his voice—Aaron Hotchner, the man who always appeared so strong and self-assured, feeling less than. You hated that you’d unintentionally caused him to doubt himself.

“Aaron,” you murmured, crossing the room until you were standing right behind him. “None of that matters. I’m with you because I love you—because of who you are. Not Derek. Not anyone else.”

He didn’t turn around, but you could see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.

“I’m not looking for younger or stronger or more charismatic,” you continued, your voice earnest. “I’m looking for someone who understands me, who’s patient and kind and makes me feel safe. That’s you, Aaron. Always you.”

At last, he turned to face you, his eyes softening as he gazed down at you. You reached up, gently cupping his cheek with your hand.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t enough,” you said, your voice breaking. “But you are more than enough for me. You’re everything.”

Aaron closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch. When he opened them again, the vulnerability you saw there tugged at your heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you promised, resting your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of you stood there in the quiet of his office, wrapped in each other’s embrace, and the weight of the past week slowly melted away. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. What mattered was that you had each other—and you always would.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @khxna @rousethemouse

[kaminokatie]

Sex Pollen || Poly!Bad Batch

Synopsis - You get hit with a serious dose of sex pollen and the guys all agree to help you out.

Warnings - NSFW.

Word Count - 3.5k.

Find Part Two Here.

{Caffeinate Me}

You were back on Kamino in the boys barracks after a particularly stressful mission on some planet you couldn’t even seem to remember at this point in time. You began to fan yourself rapidly with your hand as you spoke to the group. “Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?”

“It’s just you,” Echo replied, not looking up from the holopad in his hand. 

The only person who seemed to notice your sudden distress was Tech. He stood up from his place at his bunk and walked over to you, but you didn’t realise. Your eyes were focused on Crosshair who was cleaning his gun across the room, blacks half-way down his body revealing his muscular toned chest and abs. You felt your mouth watering at the sight and a familiar ache settle between your legs. Tech removed a glove and placed his hand on your forehead causing you to jump slightly and turn your attention to the smartest of the clones in front of you. “Y/N, are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes meeting yours. You shook your head, bottom lip quivering. Tech looked towards Hunter with a concerned expression on his face, “she’s burning up.” 

Hunter immediately stood up and walked over to you. Tech moved to the side allowing the Sergeant to place his hand on your forehead to feel for himself. A soft whimper left your lips at the sudden contact that confused Hunter, but he nodded at Tech in response and kneeled down to your height, gazing into your eyes. “Y/N?” He asked softly, clicking his fingers in front of your face. He just wanted to make sure you were aware of what was going on around you. 

“Stop doing that,” you mumbled to him. Your body was beginning to burn up past its usual temperature and you felt physically sick. Despite the heat your body was radiating, you felt cold shivers tingling over your skin and leaving goosebumps over your arms and legs. Wrecker was next to show concern, walking over to stand next to Hunter and Tech as he stared down at you. 

“What’s wrong Y/N?” He asked, waiting for your response. 

“It’s too hot!” You cried out, arching your back slightly. The ache between your legs becoming more and more intense by the second. You knew what you needed: you needed to be fucked, but why? You didn’t know. 

“What’s wrong with her Tech?” Hunter asked his brother, clearly worried about you. 

Tech shrugged lightly and walked over to Echo, grabbing the datapad out of his hands. “She seemed fine on the mission.”

“Well… Maybe she ate something funny?” Wrecker suggested, looking between his brothers. 

“No it cannot be that. We all ate the same things, so we would be feeling the same too.” 

“That’s true,” Hunter mumbled, his hand going back to feel your forehead. “Tech, she’s burning up really bad.” 

“We will get to the bottom of this,” Tech assured as he scrolled on the datapad. 

Your gaze met Hunter’s and you let out a frustrated sigh as you began to take off your armour, allowing it to fall to the floor with a clang. “I need to get out of these stupid clothes,” you whined, desperately pawing at the back of your blacks. 

Echo sat up and looked at Tech, his eyebrow raised slightly. “What about those flowers? The ones she went frolicking in after the mission?” Echo asked. This gained Tech’s attention and within seconds he had all the information up about the flowers Echo had mentioned. 

“Hunter, this is bad,” Tech gulped as he read the information available to him on the holopad. 

“What is it?” Hunter asked, peering over Tech’s shoulder. 

“Those flowers, when they come into contact with human skin, release a sex pollen,” Tech replied, eyes skimming the words on the holopad. 

“Sex pollen?” Wrecker asked, his eyes darting between you and the squad. 

You were lying down on a bunk, tossing and turning your head, quite clearly uncomfortable. You just needed some relief. Tech looked at you, his eyebrows narrowing. “The sex pollen is basically going to make her feel really aroused until she gets some relief,” Tech explained to his brothers. 

“What sort of relief?” Wrecker asked again. 

“Don’t be so coy Wrecker,” Crosshair grinned. “He means sex.” 

“And how long will it take to wear off?” Hunter asked, his eyebrow raised as he looked at Tech. 

“Until she gets that relief or erm…” Tech trailed off, reading the last part of the information. 

“Or what Tech?” Echo asked, prompting him to continue with what he was going to say. 

“Or she dies.” 

“This could kill her?” Hunter asked, slightly shocked. Tech just nodded, his attention now turned to you. You had managed to take off your blacks, throwing them into a heap on the floor until you were just in your underwear. Your back was arching off of the bunk and your hands were balled up into fists by your sides. “So what do we do?” Hunter asked after a few minutes of silence. He was biting his bottom lip, clearly in thought. 

“Someone has to have sex with her,” Tech replied, also biting his bottom lip. He continued to watch as you writhed, eyes rolling back into your head. 

“Who?” Came Echo’s now concerned voice. Tech shrugged at Echo’s question. He didn’t know, nobody knew. The boys looked around at each other, silently asking for the others permission. 

“I’ll do it,” Hunter replied. 

“I personally think I should do it,” Crosshair said, standing up from his position. 

“And why shouldn’t it be me?” Wrecker asked, looking between Crosshair and Hunter. 

“Please,” you whimpered, hands reaching down under your underwear and circling at your pulsating clit. “Someone just please fuck me.” 

Echo walked over to you, resting his hand on your forehead. “She’s really burning up guys,” he said. A gasp left your lips at Echo’s touch and you found yourself bucking your hips up further into the air. Your eyes met Echo’s as you begged him silently, forcing a shiver to appear up the clones back. He felt his cock hardening at the sight of you, spread out with a hand down your underwear furiously rubbing at your clit. Before he even knew what he was doing, Echo bent down to press a soft kiss on your lips. A whimper of surprise and need left your mouth at the contact, but you didn’t falter the movements between your legs. The other’s eyes widen as you grasp Echo’s scomp, pulling him down on top of you forcefully. He let out a groan as he landed on top of you, lips still attached to your own. You continued to buck your hips up against Echo’s, removing your hand from down your underwear to work on his blacks. 

“I guess Echo has this covered,” Tech whispered to his brothers watching as you pulled down Echo’s blacks, his cock springing free, painfully hard and already leaking pre-cum. 

“Please Echo,” you managed to choke out. The heat radiating from your body had him dizzy as he forced his tip against your entrance, pushing into you with a groan. “Maker!” You gasped out, head spinning from the way he filled your tight cunt. The rest of The Batch stood and awkwardly watched as Echo moved himself against you, mumbling praises against your lips.  

Crosshair tilted his head as he watched, eyes flickering to your face and admiring the way it contorted into expressions of pure pleasure. Your hands flew to Echo’s shoulders, gripping him tightly as he hit that spot deeper inside of your spongy walls. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you lolled against the firm pillow behind you. “She likes that,” Crosshair hummed, walking over to the bunk you were laying on. Echo pulled away from your mouth and buried his head into the crook of your neck, lips skimming your throat as he continued his sloppy movements. You dropped a hand from Echo’s shoulder and reached out to grasp Crosshair’s hand, pulling him further towards you. Lewd sounds filled the room as Echo pulled out of you completely, only to slam himself back into you, thrusts harsher than before. 

“Crosshair,” came your moan as you squeezed his hand tightly. 

“Kriff Y/N, if you keep squeezing me like that I’m going to cum,” Echo groaned against your neck. Your pussy was throbbing, your skin on fire. 

“Already, Echo?” Crosshair chuckled, his fingers dancing along yours. Echo just nodded as his hips stuttered, his cock pulsating inside of you as he came shamelessly with a growl. “Out of the way,” Crosshair grumbled, pushing Echo off of you and taking his place between your legs. “Do you need more, Y/N?” he asked, pulling his blacks down to his ankles, erect cock springing free.

“Please Cross,” you whimpered. 

He just nodded before pushing inside of you, moans coming from both of your throats. He didn’t give you time to adjust to his length before he slammed against you, Echo’s cum drooling from between your filled hole. Crosshair grunted as his lips found yours, kissing you passionately as he worked his way inside of you roughly. 

“Slow down Crosshair,” Hunter warned, but the sniper didn’t listen. Instead, he snapped his hips against yours faster, harder until you were a squealing mess underneath him. 

“This feel good?” Crosshair asked you, completely ignoring the widened eyes of his brothers as he fucked your harder. All you could do was nod as you felt your cunt flutter around Crosshair’s cock. You back arched as he hit that spot inside of you that had you seeing stars, your vision clouding white as your first orgasm approached rapidly. You couldn’t even voice it before you were spraying Crosshair with your juices. “Good girl,” he purred, one of his hands moving to grasp your chin, forcing you to look at him. 

“Osik,” Hunter gasped, watching as your entire body trembled underneath Crosshair’s slender form. 

Within the blink of an eye, Crosshair had pulled out of you and jerked himself off rapidly until he came over your stomach, spurting out of his inflamed tip and onto your soft skin. You were panting rapidly as Crosshair grumbled something under his breath, climbing off of you and pulling his blacks up before leaving the room. “Has the pollen worn off?” Hunter asked, tilting his head to the side asking both you and Tech. Tech was about to answer a quick ‘I think so’ before you let out a loud, pained cry. 

“It hurts so much,” you whimpered. “It’s so kriffing hot!” 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Echo replied, sitting down next to you and stroking your hair lovingly.

“Hunter,” came your choked sob. 

“I’m here,” Hunter whispered back to you, stepping into view. You outstretched your hand towards him waiting for him to take it.

“Please make it stop,” you whimpered. 

“What do you want me to do Y/N?” Hunter asked seriously. His voice was laced with concern as his eyebrows furrowed at you. 

“Fuck me, please,” you practically begged. Hunter was taken back by your plea and, for some reason, looked towards Echo. He just nodded at his brother allowing him to make the next move. Hunter began removing his armour to which you growled. “Hurry up!”

He nodded at you, removing his cod-piece and tugging his blacks down to his knees before crawling on top of you. “Are you sure?” He asked softly, searching your eyes for any form of apprehension. 

“Yes, yes I’m sure!” You whimpered eagerly. You had already been fucked by two of your squad mates: but it wasn’t enough. Your body was demanding more. Hunter pressed the tip of his cock against your folds, lubricating it with the mixture of your wetness and Echo’s cum before slowly inching into your folds. He found himself gritting his teeth as he placed his hands on either side of your head, supporting his body on top of yours. “Hunter!” You cried, arms wrapping around his neck and legs around his waist as he pummelled into you. 

“Stars, you feel better than I ever dreamed,” Hunter whispered softly to you. He couldn’t help himself as his cock twitched inside of you, a growl left his throat as your cunt squeezed him tightly. You couldn’t respond as Hunter smashed his hips against yours, your mouth opening to let out sound after sound, squeal after squeal. “You going to cum, hm? Tell me Y/N,” Hunter groaned, but all you could do was nod a simple ‘yes’. It felt too good. “Tell me,” Hunter growled at you, his eyes boring into yours. 

“I-I’m going to cum Hunter!” You cried out, your legs tightening around his waist as your orgasm washed over you. Your back arched off the bunk, pushing your exposed chest against Hunter’s, forcing a groan to leave his lips at the feeling of your soft breasts against his chest. 

“Kriff, you’re squeezing me so tightly, baby. I’m going to cum, where do you want me?” Hunter asked. 

“Please don’t stop, please,” you begged, but your begging mixed with the fluttering of your cunt around his cock had pushed Hunter over the edge and before you even got to answer, he was spilling himself inside you with a loud moan while throwing his head back. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart I couldn’t…” Hunter mumbled trailing off his sentence, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. You let out another whine of desperation as Echo continued to stroke your hair. You looked between Tech and Wrecker, desperate for one of them to take Hunter’s place between your legs as he pulled out of you and dressed himself. 

“My turn,” Wrecker sang as he took his blacks off so they were pooling around his ankles. “You okay dove?” 

“Please,” your voice croaked. Sweat beaded from your forehead, falling down your temples from both the heat of the strenuous activity and the effects of the sex pollen. You didn’t need to voice another word for Wrecker to push himself into your tight heat, a pleasured and pained gasp leaving your lips. He was bigger than his brothers, and although you desperately needed a minute to adjust to his length, you were already moving your hips against his. You bit your bottom lip, eyes once again rolling into the back of your head as Wrecker began to move. The tip of his cock poking against your cervix, hitting that special spot inside of you that had your vision turning blurry and tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You let out a cry of frustration as Wrecker’s pace sped up, pounding into your pussy viciously despite his usual ‘gentle giant’ demeanour. 

“Shh you’re okay,” Echo cooed, his fingers trailing through your hair and dancing along your scalp. “We’re going to make sure you’re going to be okay.” 

You nodded your head erratically as an acknowledgement to Echo, hands balling into fists besides you and scrunching up the sheets on the bunk, desperate to hold on to something. You felt your pussy tighten around Wrecker’s cock as he placed his hands on your thighs and spread your legs further, giving him deeper access to you. A loud moan erupted from your throat as he hit further inside of you deeper than anybody ever had before, tears cascading down your face from the pleasure you were feeling.  You felt a third release nearing, but Wrecker pulled out and grabbed your hair pushing your lips down onto his cock. You sucked him greedily, licking the salty pre-cum from his slit as he bucked his hips against your face. “Ah - kriff, I’m cumming!” Wrecker yelped out, his hands on your hair tightening as his hips continued to thrust against your face. Still, you sucked and licked until he was spurting his thick, white ropes into your mouth and down your throat. Eagerly you swallowed everything he had to offer as if you were a dehydrated dog in the sandy deserts of Tatooine causing Wrecker to moan your name over and over again. He looked down on you with lust filled eyes as he pulled his cock out of your mouth before patting your head. You couldn’t help but give him a slight smile despite your continuous discomfort.

“Better?” Tech asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

“I need to cum,” you whispered. “So kriffing badly.” Tech’s eyes widened as you reached out for him, anxiety settling in his gut as he took your hand in his. You pulled him to your side. “I don’t care how you do it, Tech, but I just need to cum once more. Please.” Tech nodded knowingly as he settled himself down onto the bed, pulling his cock out of his blacks. You settled down on his lap, straddling him before lining his engorged tip up with your soaked folds. With one swift movement, you slammed your aching cunt down on to Tech’s cock, moaning loudly. Your body was slowly starting to revert back to its normal temperature and your breathing started to slow back down. You knew that you needed to cum once more before your body finally expelled the pollen that had been coursing through your body. Your hands flew to Tech’s neck as you slowly began to bounce up and down, pulling off of him completely before slamming back down repeatedly. The movement itself sent shockwaves of pleasure to your core, but you needed more. “More Tech, please. Touch me,” you begged. 

Hesitantly, Tech placed his hands on your exposed breasts, squeezing them lightly. As you let out a moan of pleasure, Tech tightened his grip and moved his fingers to your nipples, flicking the sensitive buds between his thumbs. You threw your head back as you continued to rock your hips against his. Tech’s breathing became ragged as he continued playing with your breasts, his eyes never leaving yours as you moved against him, “stars you are so beautiful,” he mumbled lowly before capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. Your eyes widened as his lips met yours, but you quickly melted into it, kissing back just as passionately. You felt your third orgasm approaching, your body finally starting to feel tired as the pollen was fully expelling from your body. You moaned into Tech’s lips as your hand moved down from his neck to play with your clit, strumming at the bundle of nerves as you continued to ride Tech with meaning. 

You pulled away from Tech’s lips to speak. “I’m cumming, I’m cumming so hard!” Your voice was shaky and your bouncing was sloppy. Tech, finally gaining some confidence, pushed you back down onto the bunk so you were on your back, legs in the air as he thrusted into you haphazardly. 

“I’m cumming too,” he moaned, his cock twitching inside of your pulsating heat. Just as Tech said those words, you simultaneously came. You couldn’t help but spray over Tech’s cock as he pushed into you one final time, filling you to the brim until you physically couldn’t take any more cum. He was spilling out of you before he even had time to pull out, weeping over the bunks sheets shamelessly. “Oh Gods,” Tech groaned as he slipped out of you, his cock twitching as he slowly began to soften. 

You rested your head back against the pillow, breathing deeply as Echo resumed his position behind your head, stroking your hair. “Do you… feel better?” He asked. 

Your eyes met his and you thought for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I do.” You then sat up, looking around the room at the rest of your squad members before smiling awkwardly. “Thank you. Thank you all of you. I would have…” You trailed off your words, not wanting to think about what would happen if they hadn’t stepped in and helped. 

“Don’t think about it,” Hunter said, a soft smile on his face. “We’ll always have your back.”

“Always,” the rest of the squad said in unison. 

You swung your legs over the side of the bunk to collect your underwear and blacks in your arms before dressing yourself quickly, feeling extremely embarrassed and self-conscious. When you were fully dressed, you stood up and stretched, feeling your bones crack and limbs pop into place from being laid in such obscure positions. “I should… go shower,” you mumbled, looking down at the ground. You were all sweaty and needed to cool down from the intense heat of the room. The boys nodded at you, all of them including Crosshair, offering you a small smile as you left the room. As you walked to the showers, you had no idea where this situation left you with your squad. Were they just having sex with you to stop you from dying, or was there something more behind it all? You had no idea, but the thought made your stomach and heart flutter, along with a small pit of anxiety to settle in your gut. You’d give it a few days and see where this went, but a part of you was hoping there was more to it than just simply preventing your untimely demise from sex pollen.

[shaunamilfman]

you must like me for me [1]

summary: You weren't sure what you did to piss off Shauna Shipman, but you've been on the receiving end of her death glares for just as long as you can remember. If looks could kill you'd certainly be six feet under, but hey–it's kind of hot, right? For better or worse, everything changes after a run-in at a party. A/N: NSFW. the "shauna hooks up with you instead of jeff" au that you know and love. Part 2 | Part 3

Click. Click. “Fucking work,” Nat muttered. Click. Click. Click. “Piece of shit.” She hits it against her palm a few times before trying again. Click. 

Stay calm. Deep breaths. 

You bury your face into your hands with a heavy sigh as Nat keeps flicking uselessly at her lighter. “Are you done yet?” You ask wryly, voice muffled by your palm. 

“Nope,” Nat comments, purposefully flicking it louder. The grating sound of her empty lighter catching was starting to drive you insane, and you both knew it would only get worse. You groan as you pull back to glare up at her, dutifully rummaging through your jacket pocket for your own lighter. 

There's the beginnings of a smirk clearly visible on her face, and you realize with a sudden clarity that annoying you had been her goal the entire time. You almost want to keep it from her on sheer principle, but she'd just find another way to irritate you if you did. Pissing you off seemed to be one of her few passions in life. Do what you love and you never work a day or some shit. If only she took algebra this seriously. 

Your hand wraps around the cold metal, your thumb rubbing soothingly over the familiar gouges on the surface. You dreaded having to hand it over, already quietly mourning its comforting weight as you held it loosely up in front of you. It was just a lighter, sure, but it was your favorite lighter. You were aware that it probably wasn’t all that healthy to use a lighter as an emotional crux, but you figured that was a problem for a later you.

Nat shoves her bic back in her pocket with a crooked grin, reaching for yours and snickering as you jerk it away from her. “Don't be a dick,” She says. 

“I want it back, Nat,” You warn. Nat rolls her eyes as she nods, leaning over you to snatch it out of your hand. You let her take it easily, relaxing back against the wall as she finally lights up. Nat exhales slowly, relief evident in her voice as the familiar smell washes over you. You weren’t particularly fond of the smell, but you doubt many people were. You’d smoked here and there when Nat was feeling particularly generous, but it wasn’t a habit you planned on picking up.

You were much more content to watch, basking silently in the smoke of whichever of your friends you’d followed outside. That’s how you preferred to experience most of the world, watching quietly until something caught your attention. Nat called it ‘brooding’, but you preferred to think of yourself just as the silent type. Nat laughed her ass off the one time you mentioned it to her, calming herself down only to randomly burst into laughter for the next week whenever she thought of it. 

Since then you’ve decided to keep that to yourself as well, aghast at the idea of giving Nat more ammo to use against you. Nat was your best friend, sure, that was undeniable. Still, she could be a real bitch when she wanted to– it’s part of why you got along so well in the first place.

“Jesus,” She laughs out suddenly, cigarette held loosely between two fingers as she gestures across the room. “If looks could kill.” Your eyes follow the gesture absentmindedly, grinning as you catch sight of a murderous-looking Shauna staring down Jackie and Jeff across the room. Your eyes widen at the sheer rage she's giving off– you're not sure you've ever felt that strongly about anything in your life. 

There was something about the intensity of her face that made it difficult to tear your eyes away from her. She looked fucking psychotic, like the kind of expression you'd catch on the eleven o'clock news as someone insists that ‘he just seemed so normal’. Honestly, you wouldn't be all that surprised to find out Shauna Shipman already had a trail of bodies behind her. You eye her arms interestedly– she'd certainly be strong enough to carry the body off. 

Still, if Shauna's looks could kill you would've been dead a long time ago. You've been on the receiving end of that particular look so many times that it lost its intended impact a long time ago. You weren't quite sure what you'd done to piss her off, but you quietly thanked yourself for it. You knew she meant it to be intimidating, but the way you shivered under her gaze was never quite as fearful as she probably hoped.

That flaming anger in her eyes that you worried might burn you from the inside out if you weren’t careful only made you want to press more. You wanted so badly to see what would happen when she finally lost it on you. Shauna was dangerous, as you more than well knew. You’ve seen evidence of that more than just about anyone else: always carefully lingering by the edge of the crowd as Shauna started swinging. 

There was something about her then, something utterly enticing in her fury. She seemed larger than life in those moments, all civility leaving her body as she became something to truly be reckoned with. The dead look in her eyes and the harsh look of fury as she lost control of whoever was stupid enough to start shit with her. It was almost intimate.

As many times as she’d glared you down she had never actually tried to swing on you, as much as you sometimes wish she would. You had a pretty similar reputation, and you were more than a little curious about which one of you would come out victorious if ever came down to it. You don’t think you’d mind the result either way in all honesty. You would count yourself lucky to lose a fight if it was to her. Not, of course, that you’d let her win. That would take all the fun out of it, all of the struggle.

You’ve spent more time than you’d care to admit thinking about how her knuckles would feel tearing into your flesh, your face rocked from side to side with the force of every blow as she used the full strength of her body to really lay into you. You liked to imagine the way her fists would look stained with your blood, her heavy breathing above you as she tired herself out beating her fury into your body. 

So, yeah. You were perfectly normal about Shauna Shipman.

“Hey,” You hear a soft voice say, glancing away from Shauna at the sound of fingers snapping right in front of your face. You turn to glare at whatever asshole is in your face, trying to hide your surprise at finding Jackie in front of you. Jackie takes a half step back at the look, hesitation melting into determination as she does her best to stare you down in return. 

You can’t help the way a smile tugs at the corner of your lips: Jackie’s attempt at a glare is more funny than scary. Her eyebrows narrow in determination, but she seems more confused than intimidating. Had she walked up to you on the street you probably would have tried to give her directions. Her lips twisted into a scowl, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It was as if she was imitating a storybook villain more than anything else. She probably should have practiced it in a mirror a few more times before debuting it.

You appreciated the valiant effort but decided she ought to leave the intimidation to Shauna. She seems to come to a similar conclusion, looking down at her feet to hide a slight flush on her face as she awkwardly rocks back on her heels. 

“Did you seriously snap in my face?” You ask, amused.

“You were like totally zoned out,” Jackie defends, rolling her eyes when Nat snickers.

“So you snap in my face?”

“Come on,” Jackie draws out, pouting up at you. “It worked, didn’t it? Besides, that was like five minutes ago now.” You scoff, but decide it was probably best just to let it go at this point. 

“Did you want something?” You prompt.

“Oh! Yeah,” Jackie laughs, waving a joint she seems to pull out of nowhere in your face. “You have a light, right?” You glance at her curiously, before shrugging. You look over your shoulder at Nat who thumbs your lighter open, quickly lighting it up before stuffing it back in her pocket.

Jackie grins as she takes a hit, purposely blowing the smoke in your face as you narrow your eyes at her. Normally you’d excuse it as typical Jackie Taylor brand irritation, but you have an odd feeling that she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes betray just a hint of a smile as if she’s in on a joke you weren’t meant to understand.

You open your mouth to say something in return, probably antagonistic, but Jackie holds the joint out towards you in a peace offering. You consider it for a moment before taking it, deciding there were definitely worse ways to spend a Saturday night. Besides, free weed was free weed. Even if it was somehow already stained with Jackie’s lipstick.

You inhale slowly, purposely blowing out into Jackie’s face. She scowls at you, but quickly gets over it as she snatches it back. You talk to a loose and happy Jackie Taylor for a while, too engrossed in the conversation to realize Shauna's death glare had long since shifted targets.

…

“No,” You say firmly. Nat gives you a sad look as she glances up at you. 

“No,” You repeat again, hesitating this time. Nat, sensing weakness, immediately holds her hands together in a pleading gesture, making you roll your eyes. “Fine,” You start to walk off in search of the kitchen. “But I'm going to get you the warmest can I can find.”

You can faintly hear Nat shouting “Booooo!” As you turn the corner but decide to ignore it. You bypass the ice chest as you see a can sitting off to the side, clearly set down and forgotten. Still, it was definitely unopened. Perfect. 

You're about to walk back into the living room when you catch sight of a flashing light through a window. Your eyes widen as the siren sounds, the flashing blue and red lights bright in the darkness. 

Shit. Nat was on her own. 

The music comes to a dramatic stop as everyone else seems to come to the same conclusion, but you've already slipped out the backdoor before the shouting starts. You run blindly through the forest, waiting until the lights aren't quite as visible in the distance before coming to a stop. You lean against a tree as you catch your breath, silently laughing at the dismayed shouts as people on the edge of the woods are caught.

You duck behind a fallen tree at the sound of a stick breaking, wondering how they'd even get out to you so quickly. The sound of snapping branches only gets louder, quickly approaching your location as you start to hear the sound of heavy breathing. You watch in disbelief as Shauna runs right past you, rolling your eyes as she doesn't even seem to notice you. 

“Shauna,” You whisper harshly. She whirls around in confusion, a slight fear on her face till she seems to just barely make out your face in the dark. 

“Y/N,” She mutters irritatedly. You give her an unimpressed look despite knowing she wouldn't be able to make it out from that far away. 

“Don't sound so excited to see me,” You mutter. Let her get caught if she wants to. She obviously doesn't seem to have much experience running away from the cops. 

“Trust me, you're the last person I'd want to run away from in the woods,” Shauna seethes, but stomps over to lean against a tree near you. 

You start to respond before you hear harsh panting, glancing back over the tree to see Jeff running through the woods right toward the cops. You think about calling out to him, but you think it's funnier to imagine his face when he realizes what he's done. You're not that surprised he's mixed up his directions. You glance over at Shauna's look of disgust as she watches. 

“You could go with him instead,” You offer quietly, grinning smugly as she shoots you a look of disdain. 

She decides to ignore you for a while, bouncing her leg up and down to work off her nervous energy. You both wince at the sound of every broken twig, almost certain this is going to be the one that gets you caught. You finally glare over at her as the rustling starts to get on your nerves. 

“You know, you're pretty bad at this,” You murmur, peering over the tree one last time before settling on the ground with your back against it. You start fumbling through your pockets for your lighter, but quickly realize Nat must've taken it with her. 

Bitch. 

Now you have to deal with Shauna sober. Soberish, you think, searching through your jacket pockets till you find it. You pop the tab open with a grin that quickly slides into a wince as the taste hits your tongue. You'd been tasked with getting the beer can by Nat, a task which you reluctantly agreed to but now felt oddly thankful for. Her loss was your gain, and besides– it's not like it was your fault the party was busted before you could get her lukewarm can of beer back to her. 

You take another sip, almost surprised as it somehow tasted worse than the last one, but Shauna snatches it from your hand and tosses it behind her before you can take another one. You stare at your empty hand in disbelief, hand still clenched around where the stolen can once sat before you slowly look up at her. She's got that famous grin on her face, head tilted in a way that you know means she's about to start shit. 

Still, even you're surprised when she throws the now empty can aimlessly behind her and stumbles forward to straddle your legs. Your eyes are wide when you somehow end up with a lap full of Shipman, hands resting instinctively on her thighs as she scoots up to press her hips flush against yours. 

“Jesus, Shipman,” You mutter. “Warn a girl.”

“You know, I've heard a few rumors about you,” She murmurs, a hungry glint in her eyes. You resist the urge to tremble under her gaze, feeling oddly like a prey animal as she stares intently down at you. You almost want to get up and run, but you shudder at the thought of dumping her off your lap to do it. 

“If you seriously ask me if I've done anal with Kevin we're going to find out which one of us would win in a fight, Shipman. I swear to God.” You say, stealing yourself for a fight as Shauna just smirks down at you with that strange look on her face. 

“Heard you had a thing for girls. Heard you were good at it.”

“I don't kiss and tell,” You say firmly, pointedly digging your thumb into her thighs as they start to bracket you tighter. Shauna hisses in pain, hand clutching your shoulder tightly as you only press them in harder. Shauna relaxed her grip with a whimper, a fucking whimper, as she unconsciously pressed herself further into your thumb. She looks at you with an almost unreadable expression as she thinks for a moment, before shifting and tentatively rocking her hips against yours. 

“Too bad that senior you hooked up with last year doesn't feel the same way about it,” Shauna snarks, rutting down in earnest as your hands come up to encourage her hips as she rides your thigh. 

“What?” You ask distractedly, a breathy sound as you manage to tear your eyes from the way her dress rides up with every roll of her hips. 

“Fuck,” She draws out shakily, eyes slipping shut as she rests her head on your shoulder. A pleasured sigh escaped her as she found a good angle, hips stuttering against you until your guiding hands took over for her. 

“Had to double back last year for something that Jackie forgot,” A strange hint of venom enters her voice at the name. “And Kelly couldn't stop singing your praises to last year's varsity team. Best fuck she's ever had, did you know that? Of course, she's only ever slept with her loser boyfriend so it probably isn't that much of an achievement.”

Your initial wave of disgust at the admission is overshadowed by a feeling of pride. Best fuck she's ever had? No. You're upset that she's talking about you behind your back. Definitely. Your righteous indignation is quickly tamped down as Shauna whines out her protest as she bites pointedly at your neck. 

Right, you think, quickly resuming the endless back-and-forth motions of Shauna's hips as she lets out these perfect little noises into your ear. 

“Think it's a little obvious that I have a thing for girls at this point,” You comment wryly, sneaking a peek down the neckline of her dress as she shudders against you. 

“Oh, fuck. Right there. Right there,” She pleads, the wet glide of her against your thigh rubbing just right. 

“Yeah? Does that feel good, Shipman?” You tease, pulling her down harder against you. She opens her eyes just to glare at you, the heat in her stare almost enough to make you back down as she seems almost resentful of the pleasure you're giving her. 

She scoffs. “Even Randy could…” She trails off into a loud moan, muttering a few quiet curses under her breath before continuing, “...stay still while I get myself off.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure is.”

“Maybe you should go find him, then,” You say, slowly drawing your hands away from her hips. 

“Don't be an asshole,” Shauna snaps, clawing at your back in warning. “Make me come or I’ll–”

“What? You’ll do what?” You pause for a moment, giving her a chance to respond. 

“Maybe you should shut up and take it before I decide to walk off, yeah? Maybe you can be just a little nicer for once so you won’t have to walk back to your car still dripping in your panties.” Her jaw is clenched tightly, an absolute look of murder in her eyes but she doesn’t offer up another threat.

“Can you do that for me?” You taunt, pressing on the sore spot as soon as you realize its existence. Shauna huffs angrily, her nails digging into your shoulders hard enough to draw blood. Strangely the anger seems to make it better for her, her thrusts slowly speeding up the longer you continue to irritate her until she's riding your thigh with a vengeance. 

She whispers breathy threats of violence into your ear in between ragged moans, but it's hard to take her at face value as she rubs herself all over the rough denim of your jeans. You wince at the thought of the stain she's going to leave, quickly pushing it out of your mind as Shauna bites at your shoulder through your shirt to muffle her moan as she comes. Even as muffled as it is she’s so loud that you can still clearly hear her as she continues to grind weakly against you as she rides out her orgasm.

“Did you just...” You ask in astonishment. 

“No,” Shauna lies, voice just a little too high pitched and embarrassed for it to be the truth. She seems to gather as much from the shit-eating grin on your face, slapping weakly at your shoulder with a hint of playfulness you've never seen directed at anyone but Jackie before. She glares at you again a moment later, as if she was trying to take it back. Leave it to Shauna Shipman to regret smiling. 

“Shut up,” She groans, face flushing with embarrassment. “Whatever. Just make me come again. You can do that, can't you?”

With a roll of your eyes, you grab for her discarded flannel and roll it up to lay under her head as you sit up and lay her back on the forest floor. Shauna's smile is almost shy as you look down at her from your position between her spread legs. You trail your hand up her thigh for a moment before thinking better of it. 

“Up,” You direct, tapping at her leg as you shrug your jacket off. She complies with a curious look on her face, a soft smile taking its place as you slip your jacket under her hips on the ground. You take the opportunity that's presented to you and hook your fingers in the waistband of her underwear as you pull it down your legs. 

You hold up your surprising find on one finger, her lacy black panties almost blowing in the gentle breeze. She squeaks in embarrassment, her reflexes fast as she tries to grab for them but not quite as fast as yours as you jerk them away to shove in your pocket. “Didn't strike me as quite your style, Shipman,” You murmur, “Thought you'd be more of a boxers type.”

“Yeah?” Shauna asks. “You spend a lot of time thinking about what's beneath my clothes?”

You flush in embarrassment as you try to sputter out a response, before finally settling on a simple “Fuck you.”

“Gonna have to wear something under my uniform from now on. Had no idea someone was trying to look up my shorts,” Shauna says with feigned disgust, shaking her head as if she truly couldn't believe it. 

“Eat a dick,” You mutter, rocking back on your knees as you move to stand up. 

“Don't be such a baby,” Shauna chides, hooking her leg around your knee to keep you down. She grabs at the collar of your shirt as she drags you into a messy kiss that serves only to emphasize her lack of experience in the area. Still, no one will say that Shauna Shipman isn't a quick study as she thoroughly distracts you from her teasing. 

“Jackie picked them out,” She murmurs lowly as you separate for air.

“What?” You ask. 

“My... My panties,” Shauna admits with a quiet voice.

You grin and she rolls her eyes. “Don't say anything,” She warns. 

“No, hey. I'm sure everyone lets their best friend pick out their panties. Nothing weird there,” You choke the laughter down to give her the most understanding look you can muster on a moment's notice. Shauna glares and you hold your hands up innocently. “Nat picked mine out too.” 

“... Really?” She asks, eyes slowly tracing down to stare at your jeans. 

“Fuck no,” You laugh out, burying your face into her neck as you shake with the force of it. She sighs irritatedly, pinching at your sides until you finally stop. 

“Eat me out before I find someone else to do it,” She threatens, but you can still find the traces of levity on her face she hasn't managed to erase. 

“Yes, Ma'am,” You say sarcastically, shifting to lean on your elbows as you spread her thighs around your shoulders. 

[monarisse]

— The Hex paradox [arthur nightingale x gn!drifter]

Arthur asks, why are you still here.

You can't believe that he thinks you see them as pets.

SFW, second pov, hurt/comfort, misunderstanding, angst with a happy ending | 3.6k

ao3

There is a flex of a hand — meat under the skin is terribly tense, just like their owner. Long unclipped nails, map of the old scars with pigment just a little bit lighter than everything else. Further: burn, raw marks from laser. Further: a contaminated virus from the elder beast of Deimos. Further-

This is just a body that holds your consciousness when there are no more metallic constructs of dead people that should be controlled. It was... actually, not so horrible to unfold the truth behind the creations of Ballas. Or others. There was always something more than you in these turned-to-be-bones metallic wires and engines. Always lurking in shadow; just not enough to be found, but enough to feel the sudden twitch of a cobalt fingers or unknown step of feet. Sometimes, even more: dance with a weapon, full of joy; murmur in an unknown language; search for something behind the back. Unnecessary. Unasked. Unprovoked. But... familiar, almost to the pain in your drifting mind.

It's ironic — that they all called you The Drifter. Not The Operator — not anymore, at least. Even if there was someone, in this time of the universe, who would gladly use this title on you, it would not be the truth. And you will not allow it. Hundreds of years after all of this, there would be a child with angry eyes and a thirst for power, who changed too much and too little to be completely you again. So you give them the future and keep yourself in the past — it seems right. Especially because (it's ill-fitting, it's wrong, and it's foolish, but deep down it's what makes them and you one person), The Operator can't travel here. They ask in rare times together how it was.

And for you, it's never "was." It's still here.

———

After winter, spring and summer together, they became steadier, softer. Smoother. Happier. Amir sleeps better. Angered only by some unnecessary presence before, now Quincy finds serenity, covering your back on missions. Aoi plays on the borrowed piano from the music store, and Eleanor whispers in your mind stories that she read in the past about Great Britain. Sharpened on the edges Lettie, today holds her hand to yours, so her beasts could crawl on the skin of this body with hushed squeaks, smelling with their little noses acid and kerosene, that scaldra pours on you every day. Lettie clicks her tongue in disappointment when she sees a new wound on the meat of shoulder — because in this body you can't heal as fast as they, and it's hypocritical to come out of frame when they're — the Mighty Hex, batch of soldiers of the future, your Friends, in the end — still here. And-

It's so. Fucking. Funny. A snicker falls from your lips before you can stop it.

Lettie furrows her eyebrows. In her eyes — something eats the previous light joke and fills it with thick tension.

"What did he do?" Anita squeaks, runs to her siblings, and you just blink.

"Who?"

Oh, it's not a secret. You... can guess who she talks about. And Lettie knows it.

"¡Pendejo! You know who. Don't play an owl with me."

Sharp teeth of the future crash into each other. Smile on these lips — sugary sweet from lies. This is not something new. How many people "The Great Hero" of the New War has deceived around the years of the Narmer regime?

"Nothing. Why you-"

She smacks your arm.

"Shut up. Don't want to hear your explanations. His brooding takes its toll on you," she painstakingly cleans her fingers from void-touched blood. From all of them, Eleanor is one who can feel lies, but Leticia is... another deal. She doesn't have the need to hear your thoughts. Magic of doctors, you guess.

It's strange that she cares about you. After all, these six are a team. And the seventh angle doesn't belong in the hexagon, even if it forces itself inside.

But, for Lettie, you let it slide. Hold her palm in yours and blink a little bit slower.

"I take care of that. Promise"

———

You know it — even too much of something good can be poisonous. Like trivia: this body was not ready for the delicious food that they have here, so on one night with beer and Hex you threw up in the bathroom on the second floor. But... Compare this and... your genuine worry for Nightingale seems like a wrong play of komi, where no one could win.

Worse: you remember Umbra. His blind eye and this wordless trust between him and The Operator. This wordless care that travels with them everywhere. How could you not feel envy when this child not only found the way from Zariman 10-0, but even saved the frame that could think without Tenno? Well, now you have protoframes. They joke with you in their bones, and they help you when it becomes unbearable — this world, this time, this loop. So why, when you stretch out your hand only how you can, it turns out... It is too much. Or too little.

And... what even happens in this thick skull of his, when he abruptly leaves a conversation on KIM, then agrees on Amir's play and, after... drowns you in questions?

Broadsword

So what is it? Pity? Or are you stupid as well as crazy?

Broadsword

Stop dodging! Why. Are. You. Still. Here?!

There is a reminiscence of a dull ache from Duviri. Another swing of an axe above the head. Endless swirl of colors. And buzzing in the skull. This body trembles, unable to comprehend all emotions from a feverish mind, and you pull your hand to clean your face from... something. Anything.

How could he even ask this shit? Like you some bystander that already left them after a week of knowing, just to start a new adventure far far away. Like you didn't search abandoned markets for his favorite beer, didn't bring special ammunition to Quincy, didn't practice with Aoi and Amir on the transmission of intel. Just some guest, not important to add in their ranks.

Nidus quietly shrieks when you transfer back to him. It is something of a habit. You can't even feel the exact moment when his broad frame already exits the backroom, too busy with boiling emotions inside your mind (the biggest question there: what if Kid would be able to help them without this mess of emotions. What if Hex liked the Operator more?).

Höllvania Central Mall never sleeps. Especially now, when there are not seven, but many more breathing shadows waiting for the other day to live, so... It is a little bit of awakening — see disbelief and caution in the eyes of bystanders when the form of Nidus makes his way from the second floor to the first in one jump. But still not enough to stop the heavy steps of the infested frame.

He's in his usual spot, crouched between some ammo for his rifle and computer, and Arthur... seems a little bit surprised. Like it wasn't you who he wrote just seconds ago.

Pity. He called your carefully crafted relationships with the Hex "pity." And you, yourself: crazy and stupid.

"You could just-" There is something more behind his dazed expression, some dark undertone, but it is not about him. Not anymore.

"How could you," Nidus freezes like a mannequin in the doorframe. This body constructs itself right against Nightingale; scarred fingers cling to his shoulder to feel something else beside the usual eerie words of KIM-messages and hushed phrases under the sick sky. His brows rise up even more now, "How could you even think of something like that!"

Arthur's lips twitch.

Prince of fire Lodun, in all his ugly glory, paints your mind with blood and red.

"It's bothering me already enough time to just let it slide," his words twist something in the pit of your stomach, and Lodun's voice screeches somewhere around the frontal lobe. He shouldn't say such words to you. It is blasphemy. Lie. His hand rips your own from himself almost like you hurt him, and the scar around the palm that he left you with starts to pulsate, "You walk around the Mall like everything is okay and we're not just some dead meat to your future."

He is poisonous. Some sort of divine punishment for you, as if you didn't suffer enough for years and years of survival. There are no more light jokes, no more strange, vigorous words with the undertone of something bigger. Only a stern glance on this body.

Prince Lodun fist his finger and crack another hole in your mind walls.

Body of the Drifter winces.

"Are you fucking kidding?" teeth clacks. The jaw's strained to its limit. All of this time together, just drained in the sink, "What do you think? That I stayed here just to forget about you all in the next minute?"

He doesn't need to say it aloud. The answer is written on his face already, and it's making Lodun more loud in your mind.

"How many times have you already done that?"

Lodun roars. This head is pounding.

"What?!"

It's unbelievable. He looks at you with such a sardonic expression, as if he knows that you did something so bad that you even can't stand with him in one room, and... you want to go right in his head to fucking show Arthur how terribly wrong he is.

The worst of all: he keeps going.

"It's convenient, isn't it? To play "friends" with people you can just leave behind," his grip tightens, and Arthur steps forward. A little more and it would become a fight.

You hold back. Just a little bit, but the patience in this body already wears itself.

"So that's what's stuck in your head?" You snarl, "Not bad enough, don't you think?" One step to him, and you feel — one more, and you can crash in his metallic chest. Eyes squint, "Make me a villain more, why not? Maybe I should take control of one of you and dispose of everyone else, huh?" Luscinia weeps in the corner of your mind with these harsh words, but you are unable to hear her — spiral of Loduns anger in its all-power captured you. There is something of a hurt in Arthur's face. But you only use his own method on him. It's almost like he didn't think of this — that you could use his friends against him or even make him a bystander in the nonexistent massacre.

"You can," his voice drops lower. Grip tightens even more — soon bones in this body would be broken by his fingers. "So I advise you to stop pretending like we're important to you," Nightingale bends his head, and you can see the hues of his blind eye for the first time, "and put us all out of this misery."

You're tugging this hand away — alas, it's not working, and a wave of dull pain passes through the body. He never thought that it was as hard for you as for them.

Luscinia crying. The Sorrowful Soprano of Duviri weeping like a mother who lost something too precious for her, and with Loduns anger, it's too much to feel in one moment. Your mind makes itself the battleground of the old Tales.

You want to say: maybe you're right.

You want to say: maybe I should just leave things like they are.

But... the Hex already made themselves important for you. So much that you gladly would stay here forever, with this ancient technology and people of the past. The Operator has their people. Why shouldn't you have yours?

You take a deep breath. Close tired eyes.

"If you think that I should go, I'll do it." There is something too heavy in these words, so you can't raise this head anymore, with your gaze a little bit blurry. Not from tears, "You all became too important for me, so if it would be better for Hex, I'll be gone to my time."

You know: without you, they will all be dead in the New Year of 1999. The reactor will blow up, and Arthur will bleed on the floor of the radiated room, near the bodies of Aoi and Amir.

And you can just feel the power of Spiral, to send it all back in January, to start again.

"Don't make yourself a martyr. You can leave when you want."

That's it.

You snap.

"My fucking Sol," you twitch this head, "you are as dense as Razorback," Nightingale becomes a little bit puzzled by the unknown comparison, but you continue, "What should I say? "Sorry, Arthur, I stayed here because I know that without me you all will die." Your voice becomes louder and louder; it breaks in some words, and you feel: the dam was broken, "And I developed feelings for you, and all of this embarrassing flirting was so bad because I had never done it before? You know, because I was trapped all of my youth in an endless loop of my own death, and I didn't even think that I could feel something like that"," his grip finally becomes loose, and you break the palm from him, only to point the finger at Arthur, "Everyone knows about it. I thought that you-"

Wait. You thought that he already knew about your feelings for him — it was so obvious that Eleanor even asked you not to think about her brother on united missions. But... You shut this mouth and looked at Arthur. He's... flagger-basted. No more anger in his eyes, only genuine surprise, and — worst of all — he continues to keep silent.

"Great," you roll this eyes. Fuck it. Maybe he knew, just feelings weren't mutual, and Nightingale didn't acknowledge it, to leave things as they were. But now you spelled it all aloud, and there is only one way to turn it back. Maybe... no. You don't want it.

Sol, you should just go to the backroom and decay in some corner.

You take a deep breath.

"I'll be going to throw up somewhere on the second floor from embarrassment," you transfer back to Nidus, "don't message me," and head towards the escalator.

Worst: he didn't even stop you.

———

Quincy screams in your comm and it's almost unbearable how he just throws a stash of Scaldra supply on the garage floor, just to head back to civilians in the old supermarket without another word to you.

Blew up the tank without care of flying too far away to not be hurt; melted one of the other stashes; almost got Kalymos dead. You've gone more hectic. But it's still better than lying on a couch with nausea and a sorrowful expression (it's still better than nothing — you remind yourself — you still feel something, and it's better than apathy).

Funny: if the Kid could see you, they would be furious. Throwing some tantrum about how such a mindless thing would wreck you, The Drifter, to some pathetic ordinary human. They were always like this: more hard than you, more prideful. They could chew Arthur's words and twist them so much that the man would not be sure what he even wants anymore. But the Operator is too far away. And you are too arrogant to travel back to them. Lotus would calm you down, embrace you in a motherly hold; however... you don't want it right now. One thing that surely helps: killing. Scaldra or Techrot — doesn't matter.

"I'm worried about you," tells Aoi when the sharp talons of Garuda give her a package full of CDs, "I heard your argument with Arthur." She seems a little bit sheepish, but... you know, that you actually can trust her. Of all Hex, Aoi is the most understandable. You can tell her all your worries, and she wouldn't laugh or write off your feelings. "It's hard with him sometimes, but Arthur cares about us all," of course he is, "you included."

You hum. The sound comes a little bit muffled.

"I'm sure." No, you're not, but there is no need to talk about it right now. Aoi squints her eyes in disbelief. "Sorry, Aoi. It's between me and him and i-"

"Drifter," his voice is too loud in Aoi's lair, but you don't turn to Nightingale. Maybe he will disappear if you don't acknowledge his presence. "We need to talk," Morohoshi shows some kind of gesture that you don't recognize, with her big finger pointed out, and she shakes her head, smiling.

If there were only two of you, you'd find a reason to just vanish in the air.

Damn. Why is it harder than killing an archon with a bow?

"Alright," you sign. Garuda turns around to Excalibur and he is already heading somewhere in an unknown destination.

What does he want to say? That he made a decision to stay with you on friendly terms so that you could save Hex's lives? That he'll save them by himself? Good luck with that. You'll still be here, even if he wants to banish you from others, just not in his line of sight. And when clocks turn 23:56 without catastrophe, you'll let them go and transfer yourself back to Loid, to solve problems of Deimos.

It's some sort of warehouse — you've never been here before, and it's strange how music from the hall becomes only disoriented muffles when Arthur closes the door. You stand a little bit farther from him than usual — not to make yourself comfortable here.

Arthur leans on some kind of cabinet.

Heavy silence falls on you two.

And when you think that this was a bad idea — to come here with him — Arthur starts talking.

"You know that all my life I was a military man," he spins that damn sword — Arthur's voice... not so loud. He speaks almost carefully, like his words already were chosen before this talk, and... you don't know what to think about. Emotion without name, without personification in Tales of Duviri, born in a pit of stomach, "and... I think I was ready to leave some things behind," he's not looking at you; his gaze stops on scratches on the floor, "because there was not enough time, or... I didn't try to understand others more."

You gulp. Garuda's scales tremble.

"And I tend to search for enemies where there aren't any." Finally, Arthur looks at you. There is more than tiredness from endless nights; quiet longing, a hint of uncertainty, something... tender.

He sighs.

"And," Arthur chuckles, and you grit your own teeth, thrashing about to step from Garuda or stay in her bones, "I'm not even entirely human. I mean, look at me," he gestures at the metal skin of his body, "not a usual choice of the mass."

Still, it's better to talk face to face. Especially on topics like that, you make a decision in one moment, to reappear beside him in another.

"Arthur," your own voice strained with hoarse hesitation, "you're a good person. You shouldn't talk about yourself like that." There is a hint of a smile in the corner of his lips, and Arthur blinks a little bit slower.

"You're always saying such things that give me hope." Spinning of his blade comes to an end, and the warehouse becomes more... steady. Peaceful.

Nightingale clears his throat.

"Did you mean it?" comes almost in a whisper, "that you have... feelings. For me."

You tear your gaze from him and put it down, not able to look in his eyes. Yes. It is definitely harder than killing an archon.

Fingers dip in the elbows.

"Yes."

Nothing more. Just a short, clear answer to put any misunderstanding behind.

Remarkably, the stomach stops swirling. All of this body became... calm, like all the worries just disappeared with this one word. Even if Arthur doesn't feel the same, you are glad that you two talked about it. Finally, you can open a new page in-

"It's mutual."

What?

You snap this head to him, and, for the first time in an eternity, you see Arthur smiling. Without some undertone in it, without pressure. Just a clear, happy smile on his scarred face, and you even see some little dimples on his cheeks.

And, maybe it's too early and you should wait some time to do such things, but these hands — your hands — reach out to him, to bury your fingers in his hair and press an uncertain but full-of-burning-emotions kiss to his lips.

It's raw — skin to skin, first too gentle to feel something more than the texture of others, but with every passing moment, all of this bottling adoration for him seeps through the motion. And Arthur answers you, laying his metallic palm in the crook of your neck, to deepen the kiss — he opens his mouth, presses you to himself more, to finally give you something that you wanted too long to confess.

In reality, it's still better than in imagination.

When there is not enough air in your lungs, when your shuddered inhale mixes with his own and both of you break away for a moment, you press your forehead to Arthur's, holding onto his shoulder.

"You know," he starts after a moment of silence, with a voice a little bit rough on the edges. You open your eyes and move your head a little bit to look at him once more. Cold fingers start to play with the strands of your hair. "If someone had told me that I would want to kiss someone from the future who trespassed my mind, I think I would kill them," Arthur breathlessly laughing and-

"Sol, you're unbelievable." You smack his shoulder and move to get out from his grip, but Nightingale presses you even more into himself, and you feel how his laughter starts to seep through your bones.

"You're stuck with me now. No refunds, sweets." Arthur pressed a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, and... you hug him, closing your eyes back.

The Harbinger of Joy, Mathilda, smiles for the first time in what feels like eternity.

[bradshawed]

the holiday — pick the setting/location && the person and i’ll write you a blurb!

how about christmas morning with pope or jj (or both)!! u can pick the pairing but I feel like they’d both give really thoughtful gifts even if they didn’t cost much x

Something old, something new..

warnings — fem!reader, use of y/n, one pet name, fluff, slightly jealous!jj, jj pining for u, simp!jj, slight obx inaccuracies, parental death, links to top gun

note — went for both (with jj pining for you hehe). hope you like it! mwah ily mal x

drew's christmas celly x

...

Cleo's knife spun on the wooden floor of the Chateau, finally coming to a stop on Pope. JJ groaned, dramatically throwing his hands up in the air with a huff as the sweet boy handed you a perfectly wrapped box, much to JJ's annoyance.

Tradition states that on Christmas morning, following a sunrise surf, presents are to be opened around the questionable glass beer bottle tree (insert something or other about sustainability). Normally, a bottle would be spun to determine who opened their presents first (see the Christmas fiasco of 2012) but seeing as all the bottles were used up, spin the knife seemed like the safest option.

"Oh wow- Pope I- I don't know what to say." The boy in question shrugged off the compliment with a smile, urging you to take it out of the sunshine yellow wrapping paper you'd been so careful to avoid ripping. JJ's head snapped up out of curiosity, leaning over your shoulder to see your mother's Ricoh FF90 Super film camera fixed, with a roll of 35mm film. The three of you had found that old thing one day when you'd bribed them to help you clean out your attic in exchange for free food. JJ had said he knew a guy, but Pope mentioned having some film lying around and well, you can figure out the rest. Now the scrapbook journal Cleo had gifted you with (along with the self-defence lessons) made more sense. You pulled them into a hug, grateful to have something that connected you to your mum. "Thank you, this means a lot to me."

"Okayyy, it's getting way too emotional, who's left?" JJ, ever the empath.

"That would be you J."

"Oh."

He tried to give you the classic JJ smile, "you don't have to open it pretty girl, it's fine, really, it's not much and-" he stopped at the sight of your smile, handing over the present he'd poorly attempted to hide behind his back, he never could hide anything from you.

It wasn't neatly wrapped by any means, with duct tape haphazardly covering the faded green Christmas trees, but it had a certain JJ charm to it that had you placing a gentle kiss to his cheek to calm down his fidgeting fingers. John B let out a snort at the blush covering the blonde's cheeks (one that you missed trying to delicately unwrap the paper).

Plop. Something small fell onto your lap as JJ sucked in a nervous breath.

"Had to ask the girls for some help but I um made it for you."

You ran your fingers over the material of the handmade bracelet, feeling a familiarity you couldn't quite place. Until all of a sudden, it clicked, "the shirt, you-". JJ nodded in confirmation, the anxiety leaving his body at your visible excitement as you tackled him into a hug.

Your father had passed away when you and your brother were young, and your mother had done her best to keep his memory alive until she passed away from cancer a few years ago. You didn't have much to remember them by, except for the passion for photography you shared with your mother, and your father's collection of Hawaiian shirts which your brother had taken to.

You recently ripped one, badly, managing to save some scraps, a few of which you gave to JJ upon his request. Now you see why he'd asked. The bracelet had been made from your father's shirt interwoven with small charms. The perfect mix of old and new.

And a Christmas you won't ever forget.

[happyhauntt]

a lack of caffeine — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: caffeine makes the world go 'round. that's something you and spencer can agree on.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. no use of y/n. swearing. i really fucking struggled with this it's so boring. thank you to everyone who requested a part 2!

─── word count: 1.8k.

     The call comes in at four in the morning.

     The screen reads three missed calls by the time its incessant buzzing rouses you from your slumber, and you pull it out from beneath your pillow. Squinting at the sudden brightness of it, an unlisted number stares back at you as your phone keeps vibrating insistently in your grip.

     When you finally wake up enough to realise it could be work, you answer it. Agent Hotchner's familiar voice is stern and low and only a little apologetic as he informs you that you're going to be required in the field for a new case, and you should be at the airfield within the hour.

     There isn't enough time to ask any questions before the line clicks, and you're left blinking into the dim light of your bedroom as you try to gather your bearings.

     Sleep itches at the corners of your eyes, all gritty and blurry, and though part of your mind recalls reading this little clause in the contract you’d signed, that constant availability takes on a whole new meaning when you work for the BAU, you still take a moment to fantasise about pushing Aaron Hotchner off a cliff.

     You’re not a morning person. And you would argue that 4AM isn’t even the morning, it’s the middle of the night, and why can’t serial killers do their business during normal business hours?

     A new case. Not your first case since joining the unit as their resident independent medical examiner, but the first where you would join the rest of the team in the field. The first where you'll be required to exert federal authority over county coroners, where you'll have to step on toes in order to get the job done.

     You know they won't take too well to an outsider coming in and derailing their whole thing. You know you wouldn't. You used to be one of them, not that long ago.

     Ah, shit. As the drowsiness begins to fade out of your body, a light panic trickles in. Your skin starts to buzz as if you put your finger into a live socket. You grip your phone so hard it leaves a mark on your palm.

     It takes ten minutes to get ready, stumbling around your room and shoving clothes into a bag. You don't really care about matching socks, but you count out your underwear three times and hope you won't run out before the case is done. Do they have laundries you'll be able to use? Have the other members of the BAU ever encountered this problem? Should you pack your hair straightener or is it really going to matter?

     When you've finally dragged a brush through your hair and dumped the last of your toiletries into a ziploc bag, a dull realisation strikes you.

     Jackie.

     Going toe-to-toe with a rabid raccoon might be more appealing than waking up your sister-in-law in the middle of the night, but you don't really have much choice. She has to know what's going on, she'll be in charge of your daughter for however long you'll be gone, and leaving a note on the kitchen counter feels like the wrong move to make in this instance.

     Is there a protocol for this? A single-parent handbook you can check out at the library? This is something you really should've talked about when you got the job, you know that. You'd known it would require you to travel on occasion, often without prior notice, but it hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time. You'd brushed it under the rug, labelled it to be discussed later as if you and Jackie have ever actually sat down and done that.

     A thousand things sit unsaid between you. That rug has got a little mountain under it by now, almost impossible to ignore. It’s really only a matter of time before you trip over it.

     “Jackie. Jackie.”

     Your sister-in-law grumbles when you sneak into her room and poke her, hard and repeatedly, until she threatens to bite you. The news of your leaving doesn't take her by surprise — exhaustion seems to dull the stung of it — and she promises to call twice a day, every day, before she buries her face back into the pillow and starts to snore like a lawnmower.

     You hope she never, ever changes.

     Pressing a kiss to your sleeping daughter's forehead is the last thing you do before you finally manage to drag yourself out of the apartment. A dull ache thuds in your chest, where your heart should be. She'd looked so peaceful, so sweet, and you can't recall a time since she was born that you'd been apart from her for longer than a day. Her bright, happy giggle and wide eyes flash through your mind.

     As your car peels out of the parking garage, you feel distinctly like a piece of laundry someone hung out to dry and then forgot about.

     The sun is just beginning to kiss the horizon as you pull up to the airfield. Long streaks of a pink-fingered dawn creep across the sky. You flash your identification at the security guard and pull up alongside the jet, scrambling to grab your bag from the passenger seat.

     It doesn't surprise you that you're the last to arrive, but you'd hoped that wouldn't be the case.

     The clock just strikes 5AM as you clatter up the steps, practically falling into the aircraft. Technically, you're on time, but it still feels like you're late for class and your teacher is about to put it on your permanent record. A kind-faced hostess greets you, offers to stow your bag, and you flash her a sheepish smile as you hand it over and pass through the curtains into the main cabin.

     "Holy shit."

     You can't help yourself. Every single member of the team turns to look at you, craning their necks to see exactly who they're dealing with, but you can't even bring yourself to care. "This is a jet. It's actually... a jet."

     You blink at the open space as your jaw goes a little slack. Do you sound a little insane? Sure, and ordinarily you'd feel self-conscious with several pairs of unfamiliar eyes gawking at you, analysing your every movement as if it's their job to do so — and it actually is — but this honestly insane.

     You had no idea the BAU had this kind of budget. Do they own the plane? Do they rent it? Is it publically funded by the taxpayer, and why can't they fly commercial? Like, you're not complaining at all, those leather seats look so comfortable, but why—?

     An austere voice says your name once, twice, and you blink, looking up to find the furrowed brow of your boss frowning at you down the aisle.

     "Take a seat, doctor, we're about to take off."

     His tone leaves no room for argument. A flush rises in your cheeks, and you manage to stammer out an apology before throwing yourself into the nearest available seat, buckling your seatbelt.

     "It's a good thing you're the M.E and not a profiler, sweetcheeks." One of the agents nearest to you leans across the aisle. A charming grin spreads over his face as he offers up his hand in greeting. "Derek Morgan."

     "Oh, I know," you reply, shaking his hand firmly. "I, uh, looked you guys up after Dr. Reid paid a visit to the underworld and I didn't recognise him. Figured I should be a little more familiar with the other members of my team."

     "The underworld?" A blonde woman you realise must be Agent Jareau gives you a friendly, if slightly confused, smile.

     You shrug, suddenly a little embarrassed. Group settings have never been your thing. Too many people, too many unfamiliar eyes, far too many voices clashing together until it all becomes a sensory nightmare.

     You much prefer your little lab, and one-on-one conversations, usually with the unlucky cadavers that find themselves on your slab. They never talk back.

     "It's just what I call the morgue," you tell her. A loose bit of skin hangs off the edge of your nail, and you really, really want to pick at it. Fatigue hovers at the edge of your consciousness, and as the plane engines begin to roar, you find yourself wishing you’d made a coffee before leaving the apartment.

     You would have been late, for sure, but life would feel worth living so, y’know. Swings and roundabouts.

     "In Greek mythology, the underworld is where an individual goes after death. Early ideas suggest that someone’s essence, their psyche, is separated from their corpse at the point of death and transported to the underworld. Accounts differ on whether any judgement occurs, depending on which scholarship you’re citing." A familiar voice pipes up from the back of the plane and you glance over. The rich brown eyes looking back fill you with an odd warmth.

     More at ease with a familiar face, you settle back in your seat and lift your hand in a lazy wave. "Good morning, Dr Reid. It's nice to see you when I'm not elbow-deep in someone's intestines."

     Agent Jareau wrinkles her nose. "Now I'm really glad I didn't have time for breakfast."

     Reid's ears turn bright pink and he looks away, stuttering out his reply. "It's good to see you too. Uh, well, not good, given the circumstances, since there's a serial killer on the loose, but good because—"

     "We get the picture, Reid," Agent Hotchner cuts him off, and Reid turns his gaze back to the small window, a little flustered. Hotch looks, bizarrely, like he's trying not to smile. "Welcome to the team. We'll go over the case details once we're in the air."

     “Is there coffee in the air?” There might be a murder mid-flight otherwise. Really, how do they function at this time in the morning? The plane judders as it rolls over the tarmac, heading for the runway. “Or tea, or soda, or— Honestly, I’ll take whatever. I just don’t want to fall asleep in a body cavity later on.”

     Again.

     Reid finds himself nodding, entirely against his will. There’s something about the peculiar medical examiner, something he can’t quite put his finger on, but it makes him want to keep talking. More than usual, at least.

     He wonders if there’s duct tape on board. Or a parachute.

     “There’s coffee,” he confirms. Is his voice a little high?

     “Dr. Reid, I could kiss you—”

     Oh, hell. Judging by the way Morgan has a hand pressed to his mouth, stifling an obscenely loud chuckle, Reid suspects he’s never going to hear the end of this.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: Simon had wondered what any of it had meant. Maddie's death, why he'd been the only one who could see her. And then he'd learned that, perhaps, everything that had happened...it hadn't been about him or Maddie at all.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.25

A roaring white noise erupted in the theater, smothering all other sounds. A TV static howl that seemed to come from within your own head, building and building until it was unbearable. You slapped your hands over your ears, gritted your teeth, pulse thundering almost as loud as the unnatural noise in your ears.

Muffled as if through cotton fluff, you heard someone yell, "What's happening!?" but no more than that, the voice swept away by the bellow. You lifted your head away from Xavier's shoulder and turned your body as much as you could within the tight band of his arms. Where the trapdoor should be, rising like a nightmare from its grave, the farmhouse door materialized in the middle of the stage. Your eyes widened in horror as the familiar screams from behind it began to gnash at the edges of the noise like teeth, "LET. ME. OUT! YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE! YOU'RE DEAD, YOU HEAR ME!? DEAD!!"

You cast around, saw Maddie and Wally huddled together, Charlie tucked between two rows of seats, Ajay shielding Mina with his body, and Rhonda with her arms crossed in front of her face as the noise crashed through the theater like a physical force; a tempest of rage and violence that pierced the veil. The ground and walls shook, windows rattled, a stage light fell and smashed on the stage. The quake vibrated through your bones, motivated you to act, but you couldn't move. Xavier clung to you both protectively and in terror, his eyes pleading as he seemed to figure out what you planned to do. He trembled, fingertips bruising into your flesh through your sweater.

You'd never seen him so scared. Not once. Not ever.

Driven by adrenaline, "I'm sorry," you shoved Xavier off you, spun and rose in one fluid motion, and charged at speed down the center aisle toward the stage. The wind was sharp and stinging, pieces of glass and metal from the shattered stage light picked up and whipped about, but you didn't stop. Hurdled into it. Leapt onto the stage. Close, so close. Hand extended, fingers brushing the knob, about to brace against it to keep the monsters from escaping.

The door ruptured at its center, fragments of wood bursting outward and immediately captured by the storm. The force of the sudden explosion sent you sailing backward, followed by a tsunami of blinding, iridescent light that fell from the breach in the door and reached toward you. Cold. Clutching. You barely made out your name being shouted in varying degrees of desperate concern and fear. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. Because as soon as you landed, hard—enough to knock the air from your lungs into your throat and choke you—the world shifted on its axis and went black.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question 1.

Why did Frankenstein create the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon lay in bed and stared at the ceiling above him, cracked and pillowed, a yellow-brown rash bloomed in patterns that he tracked in meditative circles with his eyes. He needed to shower, he thought dully. He hadn't had time that morning before being chauffeured to the station for another damning interrogation by Deputies Hayes and Stewart.

"Where is she, Elroy? Where's Maddie?"

"I don't know."

"Don't lie to us, kid, it'll only make things worse for you."

"I'm not lying, I don't kn—"

"God dammit, quit playing dumb!"

"That's enough," Mrs. Grace had snapped before Stewart's jaw had shut with an audible click. "Without substantiated evidence, this is all hearsay. Simon has given you everything he knows in his statement. Unless you intend to further make fools of yourselves, we're leaving."

Simon needed to get up. Get up. Get up. Get. Up.

He didn't move. Couldn't; his limbs grafted to his sheets, muscles like stone, bones elastic. His back was sore, his skin ached and he wanted to move around, stretch the discomfort out of his body, but...he didn't. Instead, he kept staring at the ceiling as the morning looped in his mind. Questions and suppositions, two manilla folders, one map, and then a tense drive home where he'd felt little-boy scared of his parents—his father—for the first time in years, their disappointment and anger palpable in the tight confines of the car.

Simon had been shown Maddie's file. A couple of graphic photographs that looked staged for a prime-time procedural drama. His best friend's blood splattered on the boiler room wall, evidence of the pain and torture she'd incurred when she'd been killed. Murdered in the bowels of the school while Simon had been three floors up in homeroom, bored and bleary-eyed, dozing on his backpack, mentally preparing for a night at the APEX with a group he felt a little on the outskirts of.

"Fuck." He choked, eyes stinging, rubbing over them with his wrist.

The photographs were seared into his retinas; there even when he tried to distract himself or ignore them or pretend that Maddie was still within reach and not one resolution away from vanishing forever.

Blood. Her blood. From a swing so violent that it'd projected onto the wall when the weapon had been hitched for another strike. How many blows had been delivered before Maddie's eyes had dimmed and her breath had stopped? His stomach lurched, but still, Simon didn't move.

The deputies thought Maddie was out there. Not enough blood on the scene to warrant a murder investigation, Stewart had informed Simon as if suggesting that Simon and Maddie might've tried to fake her death so no one would look for her. It was half-assed and ridiculous. Even Hayes seemed to think so, though she wouldn't have admitted it aloud.

Desperate to repress the images, Simon tried to remember the other file he'd been shown. The deputies insisted the cases were linked: Maddie's "escape" and a string of break-ins that spanned two neighborhoods that would've been one if it weren't for a railway track splitting it down the middle like a stapled wound. Simon had recognized the first immediately. Riverden Heights. A low-income area that had been chosen by the town council for regentrification, spearheaded by none other than Claire Zomer's stepfather.

The other, Warren Meadow, had taken him a moment to recognize, but when he did, it'd been a feat to conceal his surprise. He'd been there the night he'd found Mr. Anderson's stash, sat on a swing in the play park behind the house you called home.

What did it mean?

As he pondered the possibilities, a crisp gust of wind coasted over him, disturbing the curtains and ruffling the posters on his walls. At last, he moved, prompted to investigate because he was sure— He swallowed thickly, tense, heartbeat ratcheting up a notch. Propped on a hand, he looked in confusion and dread at his closed window.

A slow, eerie creak snapped his attention toward his closet, the door open a sliver when he knew it'd been closed. The darkness within seemed even blacker than was natural. Inexplicable. Otherworldly. A shiver ran down his spine. Similar to the feeling he'd had when he'd caught Maddie's reflection in the classroom window on Monday.

The floorboards squeaked when he stood. Simon took one cautious step after another, muscles flexed, not prepared at all for an attack but willing to be brave. Two. Three. Four. Five steps. His chest was tight. Hands shaking. Breathing shallow. As he hooked his fingers on the door to open it further, it started. The sound was faint and he had to strain to hear it, but it was unmistakable. Wet and rattled, punctuated by thick sniffles.

Someone was crying.

Someone was crying in Simon's closet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Rhonda remained couched, braced against the wild, unholy wind until, bit by bit, she realized it'd stopped. When she opened her eyes, she gasped in shock, collapsing forward onto her hands. The world around her had changed; the theater was replaced by a span of paved ground enclosed by a chain-link fence, painted games bright against the black asphalt. A tingle crept down from her scalp to her nape, goosebumps pebbled her arms, and she panned her head to glance over her shoulder.

Panicked, she spun, landed on her ass, shoving herself backward with her feet to put distance between herself and the eerily suspended door. The void at its center flickered. It felt like a black hole trying to drag her into oblivion.

Rhonda flipped over and pushed herself up. Ran. Ran harder and faster than she'd ever done in life or death. Down the side of the building she'd found herself behind to skid around the corner and come to an abrupt, stuttered stop.

She turned this way and that, disoriented, chest rising and falling quickly as she tried to suck in enough air to keep her upright.

"What the hell is happening?" She wheezed, every alarm in her brain going off at once as she began to process her surroundings: Outdoors. Too dark for how early she felt it should be, the air thin and cold, biting, and the sky obscured by a dense layer of gunmetal grey clouds. It was raining in heavy sheets so thick Rhonda could barely make out the line of British inspired maisonettes on the opposite side of the street. "Where—?"

She cut herself off when the wide, double-door entrance to the building opened, releasing a soft glow from within that illuminated the pathway ahead of it. Children in raincoats and rubber boots bounced down the front steps, giggling as they jumped and splashed through puddles on their way to join clusters of adults who waited under umbrellas on the sidewalk.

"No. Fucking. Way." Rhonda walked toward the pathway, jaw slack, gaze fixed on the words etched into the stonework. She nearly tripped over her own feet, only just managing to correct herself as she turned fully toward the building.

Anabelle Meheive Schoolhouse for Boys.

The brick and mortar was as old as Split River itself, named after one of the town founders' wives. The school had been reestablished as Anabelle Meheive Elementary in the early '40s, ten years before Rhonda's family had moved from rural town Romania to Wisconsin. Rhonda had still been curious then, unjaded and excited and eager to learn. Her fourth grade desk had been right there, beside that window. Where she'd daydreamed as she'd stared at the houses across the street and had wondered what it'd been like to live somewhere so unlike her own home in the shanty district that bordered the factories.

Pressure stuffed her nose, her vision blurred, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the memory, instantly missing her parents, her sisters, her grandmother in a way she hadn't in countless years. Unfortunately, she didn't have more than a moment to grapple with it before her attention was forced back to the school's entrance.

Two figures emerged, one was small, obviously a child. A little boy, Rhonda discerned, with a Spiderman backpack and rainboots to match. The second was taller, slender, the hood of their sweater up so it concealed their face. They hauled the little boy by the hand as they complained, "Come on, stop messing around, I want to go home," as the little boy kept trying to gleefully splash his way through every puddle on his way to the front gate.

A spike of foreboding shot through Rhonda as she watched the pair. Swiftly, she found herself trailing after them as they turned onto the sidewalk. That sense of unease continued to worsen, churning in her stomach like a premonition of ill tides. Although it felt like every other bad gut feeling she'd experienced in her young life, it was somehow distinguished. And when the taller figure got so frustrated by the little boy that they pushed their hood off and threatened, "I'm so serious right now, I will leave you here and tell mom you ran away," Rhonda was once again stunned into stillness.

The taller figure was a girl, no older than eleven or twelve with features identical to ones Rhonda had seen mere moments before the theater had turned into a category 5 hurricane zone. Your hair was longer and your face was rounder, softer, yet simultaneously you looked exactly as you had when Rhonda had joked about getting Wally a new wardrobe.

You began to tug the little boy along again, your foul temper tween-girl extreme to the extent Rhonda questioned whether or not it was really you. Regardless of whether or not it was, Rhonda decided, she needed help, needed an explanation. Where the fuck was she? When the fuck was she? How did she get here?

"Hey!" Rhonda yelled after you, "Wait!"

You didn't notice Rhonda. In fact, she was entirely nonexistent to you as you yanked and heaved your brother every single step forward. He enjoyed being a pain in your ass, always elbowing his way into every sleepover, usurping attention, whining until you gave in and put on movies for babies because he didn't like what you and Xavier and Hana wanted to watch.

You'd already been grumpy when your mom had called to ask that you collect Aiden from school on your way home, consumed by thoughts of Xavier and Hana ditching you to hang out with another couple because, apparently, that's what boyfriends and girlfriends did.

Your face twisted in displeasure, jealousy seeping into your veins like toxic sludge as you barked again, "Aiden, come. on. Stop it!"

Xavier and Hana hadn't even kissed on the mouth yet, you grouched internally. Plus, they were still going to Dave & Buster's with Mrs. Baxter like all three of you did. As a group. Every Friday since first grade. It wasn't fair that just because you didn't want to be kissed or have some gross boy who smelled like B.O. and gym bag hold your hand like that, you weren't allowed to go too.

The rain came down harder, thunder rumbled overhead and lightning cracked across the sky. Aiden continued to resist, stomping in and out of the stream that flowed along the curb. Stupid mom being held up at work. Stupid Aurora being at university. And stupid, stupid Aiden, not listening to you when you were obviously in a bad mood.

"Aiden!" You yelled, tugging him back onto the sidewalk, "I said stop it!"

Your clothes were drenched, your limbs were frozen, and all you wanted to do was go home, rant to Nanna, and have her comfort you and tell you to forget Xavier and Hana and their dumb relationship had ever happened. Just as you were contemplating how upset your mom would be if you abandoned Aiden right then and there, you heard a car pull up behind you and a male voice call, "Hey, can I give you a ride?"

Rhonda stopped when she saw the car stop. More specifically, when she saw the face of the man behind the wheel. She didn't recognize him and he looked normal enough. Buzzed, military brown hair and a friendly smile and eyes that crinkled charmingly at the corners. Rhonda moved to peek into the open passenger window, squinting at him. Despite how NPC-normal he appeared, there was something inside her soul, a niggling feeling that made her gums itch, that told her that the man's aura was several shades of wrong.

Clumsily, she reared back and turned to urge you, "Don't go with him," as that prickly sense of unease increased, blaring like an air raid siren in her brain. Rhonda couldn't tell if you were familiar with the man and decided quickly that it didn't matter, "I know we aren't exactly besties," She said, standing directly in front of you now, "But you have to listen to me."

You looked right through her.

Leaning across the console was a man wearing a uniform like your dad's, his face familiar though you couldn't quite place it. Your grip tightened around Aiden's hand and you narrowed your eyes at him. A thousand and one speeches had been delivered throughout your life on the subject of which strangers are good and which are bad. And random men in cars were at the top of the "who to avoid" list.

"You don't remember me?" The man chuckled and then explained, "We met at the barbeque on base. I'm Christopher." He raised an amused eyebrow, "You got me with your water gun a few times."

Rhonda's gaze ricocheted between you and Christopher as you hesitated, tilted your head, and chewed your lip, studying Christopher like a Wanted poster. That nagging feeling in Rhonda's gut swelled into a sick panic when the tension bled out of your shoulders, showing signs of finally recalling who Christopher was.

"Oh yeah," You grinned and stepped closer. Christopher was in the same unit as your dad. He'd been at the barbeque with his wife and daughter, the latter having hung out with you and Xavier all afternoon while the adults drank beer and got rowdy. "Xavier pushed you in the pool."

Christopher snorted and hung his head in mock shame, "That's me."

Rhonda shook her head, her mind screaming at her to stop you from going with him. That if you did, all the happiness and joy and pure, unconditional love in the world would be snuffed out as easily as the flame of a candle. Rhonda had felt similarly when Mr. Manfredo's demeanor had shifted in the split second before he'd revealed his true intentions for her.

"Don't go with him," She repeated, trying and failing to grab your hand, shoulder, face, anything. But her hands kept missing, sliding away, your energy and hers two like poles that would never connect. "You need to believe me!"

You smiled down at Aiden, "A ride would be great, right Aid?"

Aiden wasn't paying attention, staring off into space. He did that whenever you asked him to stop being annoying. Acted like he hadn't heard you or that you weren't there. Glaring at him, you repeated the question, only for Aiden to tug your hand so you had to bend to his level to hear him.

"What?" You demanded under your breath.

Aiden whispered, "I don't think we should go with him."

Relief flooded through Rhonda, however, it was short-lived.

You rolled your eyes, "Seriously, Aiden?" God, could he just not? For once, one time, could he be on your side instead of making everything difficult? You knew he was complaining just so he could keep splashing in the puddles, but you were over the wet and the rain and the cold.

Aiden stubbornly stared into space again, refusing to budge until you poked him in the cheek. He reluctantly dragged his eyes to yours, looking up at you with a pout, "I don't want to, Sissy." Lip wobbly, brow furrowed. The same expression he pinched his face into when you refused to let him use your Switch.

You heaved a careworn sigh and put your hands on your knees as you spoke to him, forcing your voice to a sensitive register, "How about this: If you get in the car, I'll make you mac 'n' cheese with chicken nuggets when we get home. Alright?"

Rhonda lurched forward, "No no no!" She begged you to change your mind, to hear what Aiden was trying to tell you, her voice strangled, throat closing. "Don't!"

Aiden chewed his lip as he considered your proposal, eyes on the ground. At last, with one last glance into the middle distance, he nodded. It was a small gesture, almost disappointed, and he mumbled, "Okay."

You grinned and hugged him, praising him for listening to you as you opened the car door and helped him into the backseat. Once he scooched over, you climbed in after him, thanked Christopher for his kindness, and made Aiden do the same.

"Thanks," Aiden muttered, staring at his lap, looking for all the world like he'd just been told he wasn't allowed dessert ever again.

Though she knew it was useless, Rhonda bodily flung herself at the car when you closed the door, banging and slapping the window with her palms until they stung bright red. "Don't! You have to get out! GET. OUT!"

You buckled your seatbelt, then Aiden's, and the car pulled away.

Rhonda stumbled into the street, shouting after you. Her hands gripped her head in panic, pulse racing. She watched the car stop at the corner and saw Aiden rise to peer out of the back window, chubby hand up as if he was waving goodbye. The emotion in his big, green eyes— She inhaled sharply. Without any doubt, Rhonda understood that she'd just witnessed a child's future turn to ash. And she felt in her bones that Aiden knew it, too.

"Come back." She begged, tight and weak. "Please, come back."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, an ominous creak drew her attention behind her. The farmhouse door. The deep, black void at its center. Eyes wide in fright, she shifted to run after the car but didn't get even a step before the blackness shot out, wrapped around her arms and legs, and wrenched her into its depths. The door slammed closed and disappeared.

In the backseat of the car, you asked Aiden, "What're you looking at?" when he continued to stare out of the rear window. You peeked over the seat in confusion, not seeing anything worth that much scrutiny.

Aiden slowly slid his gaze to meet yours and what you saw in them made your stomach twist, the look in them far too old for a six-year-old boy. Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to brush it off, fixing Aiden in his seat after he'd lowered himself to sit properly.

"Nothing," Aiden responded, tone solemn. He began to draw a little stick figure in the condensation on the window, and then an upright rectangle with curly cues coming out of it.

You watched him for a moment, suddenly feeling uneasy. "You sure?"

Aiden nodded.

You wouldn't have believed him anyway.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Two.

Does Frankenstein learn from his mistake in creating the Monster?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You roused in pained stages, groaning as you hoisted yourself onto your hands and knees. The world was spinning, vision cloudy for a moment before the room settled around you. The damp and dark didn't feel right against you, pushing in from all corners like pressure in the depths of the ocean. Heaving a breath, you wobbled to your feet, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Even in the thin light filtering through the high windows, you recognized that, wherever you were, it wasn't the theater.

"Wally?!" You called out, "Maddie!?"

No answer.

"...anyone?"

It took a minute for your eyes to adjust. The space was wide and empty, the ceiling low, walls exposed slabs of thick stone. A cellar, you realized, stepping carefully across the packed dirt floor. Faded Persian carpets had been placed down in the center; thinner, longer ones like runners led from the base of the polished wood steps to the back wall, the tail end of the last carpet disappearing beneath the stone.

"Where am I?" You wondered, glancing about.

A few items of furniture stood against the wall directly opposite the staircase. A tall, fat cabinet with glass windows that displayed a variety of trinkets that reminded you of curiosities Victorian nobles had collected to be admired by their unworldly peers. Beside it was a sarcophagus, Egyptian-inspired but certainly not original. It was far too dark, menacing, the face demonic with ruby eyes that seemed to burn from within.

You kept a wide berth around it, its aura unsettling. Like walking into a forest after nightfall with no flashlight.

On the other side of the cabinet were wrought iron hooks nailed into the stone, neat rows of ten across, seven down. Most of them were bare, though a few still held gruesomely painted masks in the Venetian style. Some with long, pointed noses; others without, more feminine. The eyes in all of them were netted.

"What the hell is this place?" You murmured to yourself as you reached out to run your fingers delicately down the smooth nose of one of the masks.

It felt familiar. The exposed beams, the packed dirt floor, the draft that chilled you to the bone. You followed the runners to the back wall, turned, looked out the window above you. Twisty, naked branches speared the sky, a large gap in the middle where...where the road... Oh, God.

Your breath caught and you began to feel queasy, bile burning the back of your throat. This wasn't just any cellar. It was the farmhouse cellar. The place you'd been when you learned exactly how many minutes it took for a human body to die.

The room swam as your vision blurred and all at once, you doubled over, retching into the dirt, swaying on weak legs when it was over. Breath after breath felt like ice as you tried to get air into your lungs, your heart to calm down, your head to stop spinning.

"It's not possible," You choked, collapsing against the wall, "I shouldn't be here, this isn't right." You sank to the floor, completely devoid of energy in the wake of your realization. As if the darkness had sucked it all out. You sat there for minutes that dragged into each other, hitched little inhales and drawn, stuttered exhales. "I want to go home," You whimpered, but there was no one around to hear you.

In that instant, voices rose and the floorboards above creaked under the weight of several people. Panicked, you shot to your feet, casting about for something to protect yourself. Nothing good had ever happened in this farmhouse, you knew, and you doubted that now would be any different.

There was nothing. And when you tried to open the cabinet, a taser-like shock jolted through your arm and knocked you backward onto the floor. However, you didn't have time to question it, the door above opening—that door, the door, the one that had haunted you for six years—and the voices getting closer.

"Surely, Lord Althan, you jest. A stablehand!" A woman's voice spoke, sounding giddy as much as disturbed. "How on earth did that happen?"

A deep, male voice answered, that of Lord Althan assumedly, "I haven't a clue, Marjorie." He sounded dismayed, "He took off with all the money and my daughter, the wretched bastard." A pause before he growled, "I tell you, never trust a Clark."

"Certainly not." Marjorie agreed. "I had two in my employ, sisters. Irish though they weren't Catholic, and I wish I had known such an important detail before I had Beaty hire the little rats. They stole the diamonds right off one of my necklaces. Had they the fear of God in them, they wouldn't have done so."

"And they were Clarks?" A new voice asked, another male, though thick with an accent you could only describe as South Asian.

Marjorie answered, "Indeed. You'll have to be careful during your visit, Your Excellency. The poor have become a problem in recent years, I'm afraid."

You listened with half an ear as you scouted for a place to tuck yourself into. The sarcophagus was latched and the effort it would take to break the lock off would be both too loud and too obvious. You searched along the walls, in the shadowy corners. The best place would've been under the stairs but a large cord of chopped wood had been piled in front of the space.

The footsteps got closer as the group descended, talking amongst themselves. Swallowing thickly, you pressed yourself against the side of the cabinet, crouched beneath the rows of hooks, hands over your mouth to muffle your harried breathing.

A strange sensation passed through the cellar as the group stepped one by one onto the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. The air stilled and the shadows seemed to part for the group as they moved across the space. A man held out his hand to help a woman down her final few steps and then escorted her with her arm through his. The next man did the same for the next woman, and then the third man for the third woman.

All were dressed elegantly, the men in tuxedos with white ties and polished boots, and the women in beaded dresses that fell past their knees, gloves to above their elbows, and furs around their shoulders.

"It's truly wonderful that you were able to attend at last, Your Excellency," A new voice said, female, heavily accented. Eastern European, you believed, "My husband and I have been eager to introduce you to the leader of tonight's gathering."

"I appreciate it immensely, Lady Botezatu," His Excellency replied, "I was delighted to have received the invitation."

If you'd had the presence of mind to be curious, you would've noted the name, turned it over in your head, snapped the piece into place where it belonged. Because you knew that name. However, the sound of the men and women nearing made your pulse rush like a roar in your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut, turned to tuck yourself as close as you could to the wall, back against the cabinet, pleading that you wouldn't be found.

Closer. Closer. The footsteps and voices were right above you now.

"Here you are, Raj" Lord Althan said pleasantly as he claimed one of the nosed masks and handed it to His Excellency. "Your lovely bride can help you attach it, I'm sure."

With big, terrified eyes, you watched Lord Althan remove another mask, one without a nose, and hand it to the woman beside His Excellency. And no one—your brow furrowed—seemed to notice you. Not even the slightest acknowledgment that you existed. You didn't want to push your luck, staying put with your hand remaining clapped across your mouth. However, you couldn't stop yourself from glancing up at the faces of the group gathered in front of you, helping each other tie the ribbons of the masks at the backs of their heads.

His Excellency turned around after helping his bride with her mask and you almost collapsed in shock.

"Ajay!?" You said before thinking about the consequences. You rose quickly and stumbled forward, attempting to clasp your hands around his forearms as he fiddled with the ribbon on the nosed mask he held. "Ajay, where are we? What's happening?" But...your hands passed right through him, his image distorting, coming apart like whisps of smoke before letting in again. "A-Ajay?"

With a strained whine, you studied his face and the longer you stared, the less he looked like Ajay. The resemblance, as uncanny as it was, was only that. A resemblance. And, furthermore, Not-Ajay, it appeared, couldn't see you. Couldn't hear you. In fact, none of the men and women paid you any mind whatsoever. To them, you were as real as a ghost.

"Fuck." The word punched out of you as you staggered back. The faces that hadn't been covered were eerily identical to ones you knew until you stared too long. Rhonda. Wally. Ajay. Maddie. And then the resemblances faded and left behind just the most subtle of like features. "What's happening?"

You were going crazy. Trapped in a nightmare of your own making after you couldn't keep the farmhouse door closed. God only knew where the others were. If the light that had ripped out from behind the farmhouse door had trapped them too. If they were experiencing the same thing. Or worse.

"Come along, Marjorie dear, we're already behind schedule." Lord Althan remarked, holding out his arm for her to take. He led the group to the back of the cellar, following the line of carpets before he paused at the wall. Not knowing what else to do, you trailed after them, observant though feeling faint as you tried to accept that you might never make it out of whatever coma or conjuring the farmhouse door had unleashed.

If this was a nightmare, you thought, there was only one way out. You had to see it through to the end.

You saw Lord Althan produce a pen-shaped piece of silver from his pocket. Sleek, smooth, nondescript, and rather unremarkable until Lord Althan pushed it tip-first into a tiny hole in the mortar that you never would've noticed on your own. When it was halfway in, you heard a heavy clank of metal and stone scraped against stone. Your jaw dropped as part of the wall sunk inward and then moved aside, revealing a steep rock stairwell lit by a line of low-burning torches.

The group herded into the stairwell, continuing their conversation, the men attentive to the women as they descended down down down into whatever was below the farmhouse cellar. The stairs were uneven, some tall, some short, and you briefly marveled at the ease the men and women ahead of you exhibited as they gracefully carried themselves to the bottom of the staircase.

You openly gaped at what lay beyond the staircase, taken aback by the sheer extravagance, so out of place for where you were. The narrow walls on either side of the staircase opened into a massive cavern that had been built and decorated to mimic a European palace. Italian marble floors, a grand fireplace with detailed carvings in the wood of the mantle, portraits of dour, aristocratic men and women kitted in ceremonial costume.

Your attention lingered on the portraits, particularly what the figures in them wore. Yes, the clothes were ceremonial as was usually the case when the rich were painted, but they were also...religious. In a way you had a difficult time putting your finger on. Not typical of the Abrahamic religions or Dharmic or Taoic. More Pagan. Celtic or Nordic, you weren't sure, but definitely Pagan. The figures in the portraits wore cloaks and were ornamented with etched daggers and wooden laurels bent and shapen into antlers. The one thing they all shared were the broaches pinned under the notches of their collars. Large, silver things with a symbol you'd seen in the pages of a book housed in your family's library. Three interlocking spirals. A triskele.

A tinkling sound, fine metal tapped on hollow crystal, echoed through the cavern, a man's voice calling out to announce, "Welcome all!"

You turned, gaze searching the crowd of what you guessed was about fifty or sixty people. Masked and in fine dress, all of them. They stood in a semi-circle facing you though their focus was on the man who spoke. You couldn't see much of him since he had his back to you, poised proudly in front of his flock. He was tall, broad-shouldered yet lithe, and had hair that had clearly once been blond though was turning grey.

"I am overjoyed that so many of you could join us on such an important and exciting night."

"Hear, hear!" The crowd exclaimed, lifting in unison their champagne coupes.

"My only regret is that my lovely wife seems to have gotten lost."

The crowd tittered at what you figured was meant to be a joke. Stepping closer, you tried to get a better look at the man, wanted to see if, like the men and women who you'd followed down here, he held any resemblance to someone you knew. Together, the crowd's focus shifted to something behind the man. He turned, a wide smile spreading across the part of his face that wasn't covered by his mask.

You went completely still as his eyes, unobscured unlike the others, settled on you. They were striking; bright seafoam green that within them held a wisdom and respect that transcended time. You shivered as those eyes, far too old for the face they belonged to, burned through you, heart hammering behind your ribs.

Slowly, the man reached out his free hand, smile softening, and said, "Ah, there you are," in a quiet tone. Private.

Just for you.

"We've been waiting."

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FOUR - PART TWENTY-SIX

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[pointycorgiears]

When Cross Guild was formed, Crocodile failed to take into account how certain days were going to go. As in, this day. His birthday. He didn't know how, but Buggy had found out what day it landed on, and there was no escaping the consequences behind that.

Buggy was a clown after all. And, as the apparent Boss Clown around here, he was required (not really) to throw a birthday party for Crocodile.

By the time Crocodile realized what was happening, he tried to put a stop to it. It was too late though. Buggy had an underground influence that rivaled Crocodile's own, and the party was pretty much set. All preparations had already been made and there was no going back. The entire island was coming.

Well, Crocodile decided for himself that he wouldn't go. Everyone was going to be drunk off their asses anyway, it's not like they would notice.

Except for a few keen-eyed individuals.

Mihawk and his boy, the Seraphim child, had been working in the kitchen all day. No doubt Mihawk was cooking up something just for Crocodile, since the Cross Guild chefs would be handling the majority of the party's food. Everytime Talon passed by his office door, the boy would glance at him with a knowing smile. This would happen every few hours.

Crocodile could already picture the scathing, disappointed, and murderous glare from Mihawk if he did not at least show up to try whatever it was they were making. He thought about just hiding out somewhere on the island until the party ended, but Talon was just as much a hunter as his father, and that theoretical game of hide and seek would be over before Crocodile could get comfortable in his hideout.

So it seemed after all that Crocodile would be going to his own birthday party. He sighed and sunk back in his chair behind his desk, rubbing his temple. It was for appearances, he told himself. Just appearances. Like any other bothersome business meeting, at least he could decide that he was not going to enjoy it.

Crocodile glance over at the wall from his chair. The clock said 4:30. Evening shenanigans around here usually started at five. He was out of precious quiet, solitary time. He shut his eyes and tried not to dread what was coming.

Biddabiddabidda...

Crocodile sat up and stared at the transponder snail on the corner of his desk. He wasn't expecting any business or calls, so who could possibly be calling this late?

Maybe he finally had a distraction. Maybe this would be his salvation.

He picked up the receiver and the snail clicked the connection. "Yes?" he answered in a purposefully gruff voice.

There was some shuffling sounds on the other end. "Uhhh....hello?"

Crocodile almost dropped the receiver. No, that wasn't... "Is that really y-"

"Crocodile! Hey! Happy Birthday!"

"...Straw Hat? How did you get this number?"

More shuffling the background, until the other seemed to sit still. "Robin gave it to me! She said today's your birthday!"

Robin. "Why are you calling me, Straw Hat?"

"To tell you Happy Birthday, dummy!"

Crocodile was completely thrown for a loop. He resisted asking why again and fell back into the familiar safety of his dealing with business tone. "What is it you want, Straw Hat? I'm a very busy man. If it's Emperor business, you're going to have to talk to Buggy and that's a completely different number, which I'm not giving to you because I am not that clown's secretary."

"Hahahaha! You're funny!"

Crocodile was losing his patience. "Lu-" he caught himself, "Straw Hat. I appreciate the call, but what do you want?"

"Hey Croc," the other began, and Crocodile noticed the sudden shift in tone, "Jinbe told me what you did that day, at Marineford, and well, I never got to say thank you. You really saved us both."

There was a beat of silence before Crocodile responded. "Heh, you're welcome. Don't expect me to do it again, you brat." And please don't ask me why I did it...

Thankfully, another quick laugh told Crocodile the seriousness of their conversation was gone. "Heeheehee! You're a pretty neat guy after all, Croc! I hope we get to face each other again someday!"

"Heh, me too kid."

"You bet on it!" was the excited reply.

"It's good to hear your voice," Crocodile said before he could stop himself.

"Really? Why-Oh!" There was some shouting in the background. "I gotta go! It's time to eat! Happy Birthday Croc!"

"Thanks, Straw Hat."

"Bye Wani!"

The line clicked as it disconnected. Crocodile sat there frozen from those parting words. He suddenly remembered a man with long, wild hair joyfully waving at him from the deck of a ship. "Bye Wani! I'll see you soon! I love you!"

He set the receiver down.

He pushed that memory away, back to where it belonged with all the others. He leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. His cigar was currently out of reach, but he didn't bother lifting it from the corner of the desk with a tendril of sand. The old memory was locked away again, but the new memory of Luffy remained fresh in his mind. His voice was young and full of energy. It sounded so alive.

It was direct, like Dragon.

It had a hint of gravel, like him.

Crocodile smirked to himself. At least that was quite the birthday surprise. He sat up in his chair, straight. He felt jittery. Like the day had just started, even though the clock now read 4:50. It would be getting dark outside soon, but he felt like a beam of sunlight had awoken him bright and early.

He was alert. He was hungry.

He tried not to think too hard about why his mood changed.

Just as he got up from the chair and began stretching his legs, Talon fluttered past his office door again. The little clone poked his head in this time, eyes bright. "Are you ready to eat!? Come see what we made for you!"

No sooner did the boy take off, did Mihawk appear carrying a silver tray and eyeing Crocodile expectantly. He didn't have too much time to frown though, as Crocodile headed for the door.

"You are required upstairs, per Buggy's orders," Mihawk said.

"I know, I know," Crocodile huffed. "Let's get this over with then." He knew Mihawk caught the small smile on his face as he brushed past him.

"Are we finally in a good mood today?" the swordsman asked, following behind.

"As good as it's going to get. Now let's go see what you cooked up for me before I change my mind."

He was sure Mihawk noticed the spring in his step too.

[ghostlytide]

For Business Only | One

I hope you like it ^^

Vincent Renzi x Fem! Reader----1.6K

MASTERLIST -> Next

Synopsis:

After the whirlwind affair Vincent and you shared years ago, he was sure his goodbye was definitive. A fleeting memory filled with both regret and a peculiar ache that he can’t quite place. But life wishes to scorn him once again when his newest case obliges him to seek out your help. Though this case isn’t the only complicated thing in this strictly professional relationship—not with the way his heart seems to jump at your proximity, or the already familiar tune of your voice. For all the things that had changed, would this mean your story could have a different ending now?

General Tags: Second Chance/Exes to Lovers; Slow Burn; |They were Coworkers; Denial of Feelings; Pining & Longing; Idiots in Love; Eventual Friends (?) with Benefits (?); English isn't my first language so watch out for typos;

It was a late spring night when Vincent said his goodbye to you, so it was only fair that your reencounter would occur in another.

Life played both hommage and karma at him, remembering his words: You may forever hate me, but I promise you that you'll never see me ever again. I've bothered you enough.

That night, he had regained the common sense that had slipped out his grasp since you entered the law firm as an intern; eager to learn from whoever would spare you a glance for something more than to request their thousandth cup of coffee.

Of course, he did.

And how could he not to? When you were so bright and cheerful, all the opposite from those seniors who had seen the worst, to experience who knows how many times the balanced and blind justice's weight to tip at the wrong side. To have to face the client's hopeless expression.

Of course, you'd probably be sheltered from such a dark world at your station once you reached juniorship. But that wasn't the point right now.

Just as it wasn't the point to reminisce. He felt as ashamed as it could be possible while climbing the stairs of the skyscraper, which on the inside was decorated with pieces of steel, glass, and contemporary art that combined perfectly against the simple columns and the frescoes painted in the dome of the main hall.

Vincent shouldn't be overwhelmed by the sight, but he'd never been inside the Building of the Société Générale, white marble walls against a dark mosaic creating a cube to showcase the colorful paintings hung on the walls.

The secretary at the front desk showed him the way to the elevator behind the reception, polished black walls against the metal door as Vincent felt a pull in the pit of his stomach—either for the sudden upward movement or for nervousness, he didn't wish to dwell much on it.

Walking much faster than he wanted to, the secretary passed through an empty, quiet hallway in which Vincent could read a myriad of plaques varying from Accounting Department, all the way to Human Resources.

Finally, she stopped at a door labeled as Banking Associate: Cultural Department. Calling your name, she said: "Monsieur Favrè has sent his lawyer impromptu to meet you."

A muffled voice—your muffled voice echoed in the still hallway, stirring old memories inside of him he wasn't aware of keeping in the first place. "Alright. Let him come in."

A simple nod and the woman was gone. It was only the two of you now.

He took his time, a skipping beat. At the same time, you finished writing away at your keyboard. Then the door was closed with a gentle click.

"Monsieur Delaroux, what can I do for y—" A tentative pause, your bright, smart eyes locked into his. "Vincent?"

This hadn't been the deal planned out in his mind; he was almost hoping you'd ask, with a puzzled voice, who he was as if memory could morph at will rather than being one's source of torture.

So many years passed since he heard his name coming out of your soft lips, that if he remembered quite well, would taste like mocca and vanilla. But why was he remembering that now, from all times?

"Hello," he said, an awkward smile shining in the well-lit office. He put one of his hands inside the pocket of his dress pants, suppressing the childish urge to wave.

You blinked. "What… what are you doing here?"

"I know this isn't what we agreed on," he started, using small steps to get closer to the desk, as if you were a deer likely to run off, or a lion ready to pounce. Vincent had no idea which of the two could be worse. "But I need your assistance for a case. You're the most capable person I can think of, so I had to come and ask for your help."

Reclining from your seat, he let the words simmer into you, using the little time he had to look around your office, part of him was curious to see if he could still recognize a glimpse of the old you, and what he could learn from the present.

"How did you find me?" you asked, hands gesturing from him to sit in front of your desk.

"There are not many art lawyers with your name," he said, slightly flustered he had to admit about searching your name among colleagues, prying into your life when his promise was all the contrary. It wasn't the first time he felt like a fool, yet prideful because he was here for work.

And solely for work.

"I have a case linked with a small private art collection." His voice was plain, devoid of any emotion. He wasn't Vincent right now, the man that tried not to break your heart but failed terribly; he was Maître Renzi one of the talented lawyers from the before small law firm that now was rising like smoke after every case taken. "A murder. Probably linked to the growing art stock. I need an expert in the subject to conduct the required procedures."

"Since when do you take cases about private art collectors?" you hummed, eyes almost twinkling with amusement from all those times he had shit on the upper class and their slippery ways around the judicial system.

It was a good sign that you weren't bringing up his words last spoken, the past that at this moment felt too much aflush despite the time trying to bury it.

"This one is an exception." He couldn't help but get defensive, feeling like a stupid teenage boy being teased despite you being quite some years younger than him. "The owner of the law firm assigned me this case directly. We need to win so the firm can have an expansion." Which meant more law specialties, and more hired lawyers. And then it was… "They're even considering putting an Art Law department."

You could join, he almost said foolishly. Why would you like to be coworkers with him again, when that exact professional relationship prompted all the rest?

You seemed to be thinking the same. "It'll pay well," he added before you could say anything that derailed from his sketched conversation. "And it can help with your curriculum." Vincent signaled to the plaque in front of your computer, reading Junior Consultant. "It could be the case that turns you into a Senior."

There it was the ghost of you, biting your bottom lip in a pondering manner while your gaze was glued to the empty seat next to him.

"What makes you think you're going to win?"

"Have some faith in me, will you?" He chuckled, though deep inside he knew what you meant. It was a question that always lingered at the bottom of his mind, the one that stole his sleep some nights.

"Vincent—"

"Trust me. This is a high-profile case, very important for all people involved. I need your help. I know you're the only person that can help me." He couldn't make another empty promise. To never see you again? Vincent just broke it, and the opposite of that, to be partnered with you as colleagues didn't sound appropriate either. "You're the only one I can trust to remain on my side even if everything goes to shit," Vincent muttered after a while, blue eyes searching for yours as he tried to convince you with pity, even. Because you could never say no to him, and because this case was obliged to use all the desperate, creative measures he could think of.

Though Vincent wasn't lying about said statement. And you knew it.

You looked at him in a long, silent gaze that felt strangely, annoyingly charged inside the medium-sized office, silent so thick he heard the moment you chortled, a breathy, contained laugh that blessed him with the tiniest of smiles.

"Send me the generalities of the case so I can give it a glance tomorrow and write the protocol to follow."

"If tomorrow is one of your free days, we can discuss it over lunch," Vincent found himself saying before his brain could tell him to do better. "I'll give you a printed copy of everything so you can revise it easier. I apologize, but due to the nature of this case, I don't find myself comfortable with sharing this information via remote."

You put away the pencil you were playing with, settling it against the wooden desk with a thunk. "Breakfast. Tomorrow at 9 AM meet me at the Fontaine Saint-Sulpice. We can go to a nearby café once there." Looking from your computer to him, you arched an eyebrow. "Something else you need? You should go before the receptionist notices that you aren't Monsieur Favrè's lawyer."

He shrugged. "I showed her my card, she didn't say anything."

"Well, I'm not allowed to take private clients while on my shift."

"I'm not a client, we're colleagues."

You gestured away. "Wording. You know what I mean."

"You're a lawyer, Mademoiselle, wording matters."

"I write contracts and track art exhibits, Vincent," you told him in a familiar tone he recognized from when you two engaged in a well-needed, unwinding banter. "The one asked to give speeches is you, not me."

"Well, then you better prepare for an exception, because you will have to declare at court about your findings." Vincent heard your sigh and took in the sight of your angry pout, one you dedicated at him when it was time to get out of his office and help other junior lawyers while on your time as an intern. He was surprised to find it as charming as it once was. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He stood up, torn between walking facing you or just striding toward the door. He did the last one, turning to smile at you while his hand tapped to feel the door's handle.

It was his time to call your name. "Thank you. Truly."

You nodded, one of the locks of your hair falling toward your brow, obscuring your view. "I'll see you tomorrow, Vincent."

[cyberapid]

TFP Arcee x F! Cybertronian Reader

It’s criminal how little fanfics she has.

•-•-•-•

Ratchet's sudden jolt and furious typing at his workstation had caught Optimus’ attention, the day had been rather uneventful so far, “what is it, my old friend?” His question pulls the medic away from his work, instead looking up at the Prime.

“A certain Medic just sent me coordinates located on Earth,” he grinned before turning to input the coords into groundbridge controls with practiced precision and the familiar sound of the opening flooded all audials in the room.

The humans and autobots present all perked up as a femme made her way through the portal before it closed behind her.

Miko was the first to speak, blurting out, “who’s this! Another girl bot!” She’s sat criss-cross on the floor just in front of the couch, pointing her controller at the autobot entering. Said bot startles at her sight and at Raf, who’s taken to watching the bot from afar.

“Oh, you have little pests,” This gets a hum of amusement from Ratchet who pulls himself away from his work to greet you,

“Humans-“

“Certainly not pests, they are our companions” Optimus’ servo clasps your shoulder in greeting as Ratchet attempts to shoo him away and ushers you towards his lab, ignoring the chatter of the other bots and humans attempting to catch your attention.

“I know you’re revving to go get a look at what I’ve got Ratchet but where’s Acree?” He hums looking at the coordinates of your ship before imputting them into the groundbridge, seemingly ignoring your questioning. “Ratchet?”

“She’s patrolling! Should be back soon, why?” The voice of the human girl startles you, she’s leaned over the guardrail just above Ratchet’s work space watching you,

“Ah thank you, human. Just excited to reunite, it’s been quite some time” you find yourself scooting away from the small creature and the medic who’s taken to looking through his equipment and towards the main hangar of the small base the Autobots now call home when large servos pull you up off your pedes into a plate bending hug,

“It’s been way too long!! Look at you! New rims? Or a new paint job? Something is different!-“ any further questions he had or any answers you might have given die at the familiar sound of an engine humming down the long hall that leads to their base.

Arcee skids to a stop and allows Jack off before transforming and stretching her struts, “I’m gonna recharge. Mind taking him home when you take Miko, Bulk?”

Her helm turns to you as Bulkhead gently sets you back onto your pedes, she looks- Angry? Her quick steps cause you to shrink back but when she’s finally at an arm’s length she pulls you into a crushing embrace.

Her digits screech against the metal of your back plating as she seems to desperately clutch at any part of your frame, trying to confirm that you’re really in front of her. Your fears melt away and your spark swells at the long awaited sight of your lover, “you,” her digits trace down your back plating to settle on your skirt plates for a moment before sliding back up and clutching the sides of your face plating, “you’re here,”

You don’t verbally respond, instead pushing your helm out of her hands, in order to rub your facial plating into the cabling of her neck. A gentle rumble of your vents mixes with the thrum of your spark as it seems to sense and feel the sudden closeness of its other half; leading to a soft purr to leave your intake which your mate eagerly relies to inkind. The tender embrace elicits different reactions as the prime turns his back, flushed, to assist the Medic who’s optics haven’t left the computer in his lab, then there’s bulkhead who smiles at the embrace with Miko below him, who’s practically shaking with stacking questions in her mind, and finally Jack who stares in utter confusion at his guardian turned friend.

It’s finally Ratchet who interrupts the pair with a click of his glossa to the roof of his intake, “not to interrupt this tender moment but we have work to do, don’t we?” His arms are crossed as he watches the two of you pull apart and then motions to the groundbridge which has now powered on with the coordinates to your landed ship. “I need to look through your equipment, soon as possible. Thank you,” he trudges through the portal without a second word.

“He’s in a good mood,” you turn to your mate with a cheeky smile, tracing pointed digits over the pink framing of her facial plate, “recharge, I’ll join you when he frees me.” She huffs before leaning her helm against yours and nods.

“Fine, be quick” she pulls away with one last look at your frame, “new skirt plate? And side platings, hm” Her digit skims your skirt plate as she leaves the room; desperate for one last touch before the many to come later in the cycle.

“I knew it!” Bulkhead’s voice is the last you hear as you step through the ground bridge, to the familiar sight of your ship and the medic scouring through it.

•-•-•-•

“Gay robots?” Miko stares up at Jack for confirmation at what they had just seen, eyes practically sparkling with excitement.

Jacks less than thrilled with her overexcitement, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his friend has a partner, who happens to be a femme which he’s fine with, but also that she hadn’t bothered to tell him, “Will you stop it, Miko”

Bulkhead is the next to lean closer to their height before asking them, rather confused, “Gay?”

[primaviva]

CAN’T SLEEP WITHOUT YOU

PAIRING: gwen stacy x fem!reader

gwen has trouble sleeping sometimes due to all the stress of being spiderwoman and a student. when this happens and you’re still up, you’ll both stay up texting for a while before she forces her eyes to close. but the days she really wants to relax, which is every time she can’t sleep, she finds herself begging for you to take her in.

gwen retrieved her phone from her pocket, a tired sigh escaping her lips as she glanced at the screen. the digital numbers displayed 11:00, serving as a reminder that it was a school night. she knew she had to sleep soon because of how early she woke up to take the bus and the last thing she wanted was to go through eight hours of classes feeling like a zombie.

yeah, she could always just swing to school and cut down on time but she likes to keep ghost spider and gwen stacy separate.

gwen swiftly concluded her patrol, tying up loose ends and ensuring the safety of new york. she knew that to take care of her city she had to take care of herself which meant finally getting home and making contact with her bed.

as soon as her duties were fulfilled, she swung home with the quickness. with each swift motion, the exhaustion tugged at her eyelids, urging her to surrender to sleep.

her face brightened with anticipation as her apartment window came into view. gwen landed gracefully on the fire escape, careful not to disturb her father with any sudden noises. her slender fingers, marked with calluses from years of determination, gilded against the cold window's edge before slowly lifting it up. with a quiet step, she entered her.

moving with a delicate tread, gwen tiptoed her way to her room. she shoved the door open as her weariness became evident, causing her to collapse onto the bed without even bothering to change out of her suit.

slipping beneath the cool sheets, gwen closed her eyes, expecting the embrace of sleep to envelop her. but as the stillness settled around her, her eyes opened wide in realization that she couldn’t sleep.

something was… missing.

the more she willed herself to sleep, the more elusive it became, slipping through her grasp like sand in an hourglass. restless, she shifted in her bed, her senses attuned to the subtle sounds of the night. the distant hum of traffic, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the soft whispers of the wind seemed to mock gwen.

gwen let out a frustrated sigh. "why can't i sleep? i'm so exhausted,” her voice echoed softly in the quiet room.

tossing and turning, she reached for her phone on the nightstand, her mind clouded with thoughts of you. with another sigh, she lazily worked her fingers against the screen to see if you were awake. after a couple minutes, she couldn’t wait and just decided to call you.

the phone rang, and gwen's heart raced. after a few rings, she heard a click.

"gwen, what's wrong? it's so late you need to count sheep or sum,” you groggily answered, voice thick with sleep.

gwen winced at hearing how annoyed you sounded before giggling at your sleepy state, realizing she had disturbed your rest. "sorry, sorry. i can’t sleep, and i just wanted to hear your voice. can i come over? i really need you…”

you paused for a minute as you sat up in bed. you felt your blood rush up to your cheeks as you replayed the last part in your head. she needed you? you know that if gwen was more awake she would’ve become a jumbled mess explaining in what context she meant that.

there was still silence on the end of your line, followed by a soft groan.

“of course you can come by,” you replied. “but let those muddy converse touch my floor and i will swing on you faster than i let you inside.”

she let out a hoarse chuckle. god, how you loved the way her voice sounded when she was tired. “thanks, babe. i’ll be there soon so don’t fall asleep on me.”

before you could even rebuttal her comment, gwen hung up on you.

this scenario had become all too familiar, where gwen's restless nights led her to call upon you, pleading to be let into your room through the window. with an exasperated huff, you begrudgingly rose from your bed, resigned to the routine that had developed. you walked over to your drawers, selecting a tank top and shorts, relying on your “girlfriend-sense,” honed from countless encounters and the sound of her voice, to assume she had just finished her patrol and was still clad in her spider suit.

the soft knocks on your window startled you, and as you parted the curtains, you were greeted by the sight of a weary ghost-spider hanging upside down outside. gwen removed her mask, revealing a sheepish grin that tugged at your lips, though your eyes remained heavy with sleep. you began to open the window, sensing her eagerness to enter. however, before you could create enough space, gwen swiftly lifted the window herself and landed inside.

"ay, was this worth waking me up?" you teased, stepping back to allow gwen to make her way inside.

"yes," she muttered quickly, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and leaning on you for support. "see, i didn't even wear my sneakers."

you glanced down to confirm her statement, prompting a laugh from gwen as she caught on to your observation. towering over you, her weight pressed against you, causing you to feel the strain in your body.

gasping slightly, you spoke up, "gwen, i'm not tryna visit a chiropractor, so if you could-"

without hesitation, she immediately released her hold on you. gwen cupped your face, her gaze locked with yours. "i'm sorry, babe. i just... i needed you. i needed this.”

she leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. it was deliberate, savoring the taste of your mouth, resisting the urge to deepen the connection with her tongue. your hands covered hers, anchoring them as they held you, and gwen emitted a contented hum against your lips.

pulling back, she rested her forehead against yours, her hands lingering until you gently guided them away. as you walked over to where you had placed the clothes you had chosen for her, gwen followed closely behind.

"it's time for you to sleep," you asserted, tugging at the bottom of her torso part of the suit. with her assistance, you lifted it up and over her head, replacing it with the tank top. slowly dropping to your knees, you swiftly pulled down the spandex pants in one fluid motion, skillfully replacing them with the shorts you had prepared.

"c'mon," you gestured, turning your back to face gwen as you walked towards your bed. you settled in, covering yourself with the blanket and closing your eyes, ready to drift off to sleep.

gwen hesitated for a moment, watching you, and you felt a pang of concern that she hadn't joined you on the bed yet. but then, you sensed the shift in weight as she crawled onto the mattress, pulling the covers up and over her body. she shuffled around, finding her own comfortable position beside you.

suddenly, her cold hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you close to her chest. gwen nuzzled her face into your neck, her chilled fingers slipping under your shirt, tracing gentle patterns along your warm skin.

"remember that we have to wake up early so you can go back to your dad. i don't want to add to his arrest statistics," you mumbled, a hint of playfulness in your voice. gwen let out a soft laugh and hummed in response, her touch continuing to caress your skin.

"(y/n)?" gwen called out in the quiet of the bedroom.

you made a soft sound to let her know you were listening.

"thanks for taking care of me, (y/n). you're always here for me," she spoke, her voice filled with gratitude.

a tender smile graced your lips as you turned to face her, your eyes meeting hers. she reached out, her hand finding yours, fingers intertwining. "you don't have to be the hero all the time, gwen. it's okay to lean on someone else, especially someone who cares about you as much as i do."

gwen's heart fluttered at your words, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. you guided her head down, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead before turning back around, her hand still held in yours, resting on your chest.

she tilted her head, her lips hovering just inches away from your neck. softly, she whispered against your skin, "i love you." her breath sent a shiver down your spine, and she pressed tender, open-mouthed kisses down to your shoulder, eliciting a giggle from you.

warmth filled your chest as you replied, "i love you too, gwen. goodnight."

"night," she mumbled back, her legs entwining with yours.

gradually, her eyes grew heavy, her breath slowing, and her heartbeat calming. before you knew it, a contented smile played on your lips as her grip on your hand loosened, and soft snores vibrated against your back. her messy hair tickled against your skin, and you found yourself drifting off to sleep.

yeah, sometimes gwen can't sleep at night because something's missing, and that something is you. you provide a warmth that's so much more than physical; it's also spiritual. you give her peace, you're like her sanctuary, and nothing puts her at ease more than that.

A/N: first blurb how we feelin 😨

© 2023 primaviva

[floylia]

𝐈𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 🖋️

ENTRY #01: The Little Friend

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” — Donna Tartt, The Little Friend

—S. MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

THE VOICE OF reason vanished when Scaramouche entered the house.

“Was Makoto murdered?”

His mother stares at him, dropping the coffee in her hand, obviously flustered by his sudden question, “Murdered by her mind, you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Ei scoffs, avoiding eye contact, looking at everything but him, “She overdosed, you saw the reports.”

He did. He saw the reports that the family doctor gave them. Someone who’s loyalty could be bought with coins and bands. He never truly knew his aunt. At least not on a personal level. In fact he doesn’t really know anyone in his family. But he’d like to believe that Makoto would never threaten her life the way she did.

“What is this about anyway? Did you do what I asked you already?” His mother sighs, trying to change the subject as she shifts in her seat.

“I did. Now tell me why you want to sell her house so quickly. It hasn’t even been a month.”

“Maintaining it is time-consuming. You and I both know that no one has time to spare. Besides, we had this discussion before so–”

“I’ll buy it,” He declares. For the past week, he’s been cleaning out his aunt’s mansion to sell it at his mother’s request so they could all move on. A strange demand considering the affection his mother always gave towards her beloved sister. He had assumed she wanted to keep the only ties Makoto left them. There wasn’t a note, just a house filled with her hopes and dreams.

“What?”

“I’ll take it.”

Scaramouche usually prides himself on being rational, but the decisions he’s been making contradicts that–like trusting you. And if you’re right about your theory, then keeping the house is in his advantage. Besides, he’s been sharing the same apartment with his college roommates, Sethos and Aether. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a nice change of pace.

Ei clicks her tongue, “You’re awfully suggestive today.”

“And you’re overly suspicious.”

She tilted her head in disbelief, “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Should you be accused? Because right now, you’re not telling me everything that I need to know.”

No voices were raised but the tension certainly did.

“Then do whatever you want,” Ei finally says as she stands up to go to the kitchen to clean up the coffee cup.

That was too easy. Too simple for something that should’ve been a challenge. But maybe he should’ve been thankful.

“By the way,” He stops to look at his mother again, “This is my last question. No need to look scared. Did Makoto ever mention… receiving a sakura tree painting?”

She shrugs, genuinely puzzled, but somehow soft at the mention of her sister, “No, but she’d be delighted to.”

Scaramouche nods.

But before he leaves, he glances once more at the large portrait of a sakura tree shaped in a kitsune hanging in the middle of the living room with initials that seem too familiar.

╰──────»»❀❀❀««──────╯

“You're moving?” Sethos and Aether ask simultaneously.

Scaramouche nods and continues to pull his hanged black and purple clothes off the rack, folding it neatly to pack in his bags. He realizes that maybe Sethos and Aether were right about his choices of clothes.

Sethos stops his arm, “Why?”

Scaramouche pulls back, “Why not?”

“It’s a bit sudden.” Aether interrupts.

“Now you’re complaining?”

The three of them have lived in the small apartment since their college days. When Scaramouche finally had the chance to break away from his mother’s grasp, he took it. It might not have been his first choice, but choosing is a privilege, and at the time he didn’t have that. Because on the way to the airport to fly to his dream university, the car he took got into an accident. The offer given to him was revoked. He doesn’t know how or why, but all he knows was someone else filled that spot—and he hasn’t been the same ever since.

At least, now he has freedom, and with that, he decides that today is when he stops living with two broke guys.

“Take us with you.” Sethos eyes bulge and he puts his hands together, praying to Scaramouche like he’s a god. Maybe in another life he could be.

“Hell no.”

Aether shakes his head, “Seriously, what changed? Your family was so adamant about selling it. Now you’re moving there? It’s one hell of a place, but the atmosphere is eerie. It’s so isolated.”

Scaramouche simply shrugs, “It’d be a waste to leave it to a stranger.”

“Since when did you care about sentimentality’s?” Aether asks.

“Since when did you care about my life?” Scaramouche retorted.

Sethos nudges Aether, “He’s answering a question with a question.”

“It’s because of [Y/N], right?” Aether’s brows shot up.

“She’s back?” Scaramouche swears that Sethos’ jaw slacked to the floor.

“Why does it matter?”

“Because you care. And you never care.”

“I don’t,” And if you were here, that would’ve been a lie.

╰──────»»❀❀❀««──────╯

“You’re saying your aunt never committed? Someone drugged her?” Aether repeats what Scaramouche had told them so they could stop holding onto his leg while begging him to stay,

The purple-haired boy shrugs, “It’s a possibility.”

“And your mother’s not hearing you out?”

Scaramouche sighs, already bored of their discussion and too exhausted from the adrenaline of confronting his mother. He didn’t exactly say anything to her about Makoto’s death appearing more suspicious than it looked.

“How can you trust her?” Aether stares at Scaramouche with concern, the type of worry that was only reserved when you’re the subject of conversation.

His blonde friend is right. But he can’t admit that a part of him believes your words, not because it’s you, but because the situation has been itching the back of his mind, “I don’t, I trust myself.”

“He’s lying.” You say, scaring the three of them.

You stand in front of his doorway, wearing a formal outfit with your arms crossed and a wondering expression, looking back at him and the clothes he’s packing.

“Do you make it a habit of entering people’s houses unwanted?” He frowns and every time you blinked, his frown deepened.

You point down the hallway towards the main door, “It was open.”

“Doesn’t mean you enter.”

“You called me here.”

Sethos and Aether give him a look. Sethos stared at him with amusement while Aether’s was more of discomfort as if Scaramouche had made a big mistake.

But that was always the case for him wasn’t it?

Scaramouche takes a deep breath and ignores them, including you as he silently moves towards the deeper area of his closet.

Sethos walks to greet you with a bright smile, “Hello, pretty. It’s been a while.”

“It has been, have you gotten taller?” You say.

“You’ve gotten funnier,” Aether snorted.

Sethos shoves him, “Ignore him. How have you been? I heard you work at Celestia Institute of Arts now. What's it like? I’ve visited a few times, and can I just say–”

“Clearly she’s fine,” Scaramouche interrupts and holds up the painting you’ve been looking for.

You look at it with surprise. Mouth slightly parted as you analyze the canvas, blinking rapidly like it’s going to vanish anytime soon, “You had it?”

“My mother had it,” he declares and you knit your brows together wondering why. But before you can ask, he tells you to leave, “Get out.”

“Wait, what?”

“I said, get out. You got what you wanted, and now I want you to leave.”

Scaramouche admits he’s petty. He’s always been. That’s why he called you here instead of mailing you the painting. That would’ve been easier than seeing your face and feeling his blood boil with rage. But he wanted to hand you off the very thing you wanted to possess, to give you hope for a little bit.

To see you feel grateful.

Then push you away all at once.

“I thought we were going to work together. Isn’t that why you called? Why you got this?”

He laughs and it’s humorless–utterly mocking, “I never said that. I stood and I listened, but didn’t mean I wanted to work with you.”

“But–”

“Did I lie? I want you out.”

He sees you flinch.

He feels great.

Sethos and Aether say nothing. They stand there awkwardly just like you, uncomfortable and hurt, he hopes, yet somehow you’re still relentless. He hates that about you, or rather he hates plenty of things about you—but that trait in particular bothers him. You just never seem to give up.

“Aren’t you curious?” You begin, “Don’t you want answers? Justice? Some sense of resolution? I know you do.”

“You don’t know me! Stop acting like you do.” The rage he didn’t show his mother projects to you and everyone else in the room.

You flinch again.

He feels better again.

You bit your bottom lip, refraining yourself from saying something nasty. He would have preferred it if you did. Lately, all he speaks with is arguments, “You’re packing your things to move into her house. I heard you.”

“Doesn’t mean I need your help.”

You click your tongue, “Are you still mad at me? Is that it? You still can’t let that go?”

No he can’t. He doesn’t think he ever will.

“What does it look like?” He says.

“Like you’re a coward who can’t walk away from his past, so you hold onto it like a grudge.”

“You walked out first.”

“You said you would follow me.”

“I would’ve!”

The doorbell rings. Scaramouche looks visibly annoyed. He grabs your wrist and he pulls hard as he drags you towards the door. When he opens it, he motions for you to leave before seeing a package with his name in printed bolded letters. He doesn’t remember ordering something online. He barely shops and this package doesn’t seem like it belonged to a store.

You don’t move. You refuse to leave. Instead, you watch him pick up the package and rip it open, taking the remaining rage he feels on the brown box.

“What the hell.” Sethos is the first to say the thoughts they’re too shocked to say.

Inside the box appears a plastic bloodied hand wearing a gold ring, holding individual pictures of you and him with faces crossed out in red “x” alongside a note that said, “Need a hand?”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Aether says sarcastically.

Scaramouche may look like he’s seen a lot of blood. But this is messy, and he doesn’t like it messy. He flips over the note, looking for context as who it is from.

But he sees something worse: “To the little friend without a heart–”

He hopes it’s not literally.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

this is a longer chapter, but the next one is even longer—it’s already more than this and i’m not even halfway done :/

🏷️ (OPEN):

@danfelions @scaraenthusiast1 @meowrenapurrdo @dreamayy @misterpoofin @eternal-dokja @lalalaloveallmydays @jshkfan @kazeyozuha @yotraumainthebuilding